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SPRING    FLOWERS 

AND 

ROWEN 


BOOKS  BY  MR.  KENYON. 

In  Prose 

LOITEHINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 
REMEMBERED  DAYS 
RETRIBUTION 

In  Verse 

THE  FALLEN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

OUT  OF  THE  SHADOWS 

SONGS  IN  ALL  SEASONS 

IN  REALMS  OF  GOLD 

AT  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS 

AN  OATEN  PIPE 

A  LITTLE  BOOK  OF  LULLABIES 

POEMS 

REED  VOICES 

THE  HARVEST  HOME.     Collected  Poems. 


Spring  Flowers 


AND 

Rowen 

BY 
DORIS  KENYON 

AND 

JAMES  B.  KENYON 


JAMES  T.  WHITE  &.  CO. 

NEW  YORK 

1922 


COPYRIGHT    1922 
BY   JAMES    B.    KENYON    ft    DORIS    KENYON 


ANTICIPATION. 
To  MY  DAUGHTER  Donis. 

No  rose  can  shut  and  be  a  bud  again; 

Sometime,  my  darling,  you  will  understand 
Why  I  am  greedy  of  these  moments  when 

Against  my  breast  I  hold  your  little  hand, 
And  watch  the  curves  and  dimples  of  your  face, 
And  all  your  beauty  and  your  flower-like  grace. 

For  the  swift  current  of  the  ceaseless  years 
Shall  bear  you  on  their  bosom  to  life's  main, 

Where  tempests  rage  and  hearts  grow  sick  with  fears, 
And  the  black  shadow  waits  whose  name  is  Pain; 

Then  this  sweet  brow  shall  wear  a  crown  of  care, 

And  I,  my  dear  one,  I  shall  not  be  there. 

O  tender  feet,  the  way  is  rough  and  steep; 

O  violet  eyes,  your  vigils  must  be  long; 
So  while  I  may,  in  love's  nest  let  me  keep 

My  precious  baby  safe  from  any  wrong; 
Kiss  me  with  lips  still  pure  and  undefiled, 
For  sometime  I  shall  lose  you,  O  my  child. 

J.  B.  K. 


U 


CONTENTS 

SPRING  FLOWERS,   BY   DORIS   KENYON 

THE  END  OF  THE  ROAD 9 

SERENADE      10 

THE    COLUMBINE     11 

THE    HERMIT    THRUSH     12 

THE  LIVING  PAST 13 

DANDELIONS     14 

THE   DESPOILEH 14 

THE    SEEKEH     15 

THE    REFUGE    16 

THE  EVIL  DEED 17 

HIS    NAME     18 

THE    POOL   ON    THE    PAVEMENT    19 

A   TRAGEDY    OF   DAWN     21 

METAMORPHOSIS      22 

THEIR   GRAVES    IN   FRANCE    23 

BEYOND   RECALL 24 

THE  MOUNTAIN 25 

THE    TEARDROP     . 26 

A  BOLT  FROM  THE   BLUE 27 

THE    PLAY 28 

TO   LOUISE    VON   FEILITSZCH    29 

THE   PARTING 30 

TO  FRANCOIS 31 

FRANCOIS    ENTREATED     33 

TO   THE   BARD   OF   VAGABONDIA 34 

THE   SOLE   REMEMBRANCE 35 

IN   A   NORTHERN    WOODLAND    36 

WELTSCHMERZ     87 

THE   SUICIDE 88 

DISILLUSIONMENT     .  .                                                                      39 


CONTENTS  OF  SPRING  FLOWERS— Continued 

IN  THE  GARDEN 40 

FAILURE       41 

WHEN    YOU    CAME 42 

THE   BIRTH    OF  THE    FIREFLY    43 

FOREKNOWN    44 

SHADOWS    45 

NAUGHTY    LUCILE     46 

THE    LIGHT    ON    THE    HILLSIDE     47 

THE    NEW   DAY 49 

THE    HAVEN    OF   THE    HEART 50 

REFUSAL      51 

IN    AN    AIRPLANE     52 

UNE    PENSEE 53 

THE    SECRET     54 

IN    OTHER   DAYS 55 

REFLECTIONS 56 

THE    CONSTANT    PRESENCE     57 

RENEWAL      58 

RETRIEVAL 59 

LOVE    AND   DOUBT    60 

BECAUSE    I    LOVE    THEE 61 

GHOSTS      .  .  .'. 62 

LONGING     63 

AS   ONE   TO   ANOTHER 64 

GROTESQUERIE 65 

YOU     66 

LILIES   OF   THE   VALLEY     67 

TWO  THINGS 68 

IMAGINATION     69 

LAMP    SHADE     70 

PERVERSENESS     .  . 71 

WHY? 72 

MY   MESSAGE 73 

THE   VALENTINE 73 

SILHOUETTES .  74 


CONTENTS 

ROWEN,  BY  JAMES  B.  KENYON 

INSCRIPTION    78 

THE    WANDERING    JEW     79 

TOWAKDS  THE   SUNSET 85 

ANTIPHONAL     86 

LEAVETAKING    87 

MYSTERY     88 

HAOAR 89 

FINEM     RESPICE      90 

DAY  BY   DAY    91 

BECALMED     92 

OCTOBER       93 

THE  SUMAC 94 

WHEN  THE  DAY  DECLINES 95 

EDMUND  SPENSER 96 

THE    MOHAWK     97 

KIZPAH     98 

PAIN      99 

MIGHTY  AT  THE   LAST 101 

AN    HOUR-GLASS    102 

A    CRUSHED    ROSE     103 

IT    SHALL    BE     KNOWN     104 

TOO    LATE     105 

WHERE  DREAMS  COME   TRUE 106 

COME    SLOWLY    PARADISE    107 

MOTHER      108 

AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  BARBARA  HECK  109 

DIANA'S  BATHING  PLACE   110 

WHAT   IS    SHE    LIKE?     Ill 

KATIE    LEIGH     .  ,                                                                                                       ,  .  112 


CONTENTS  OF  ROWEN— Continued 

OUT   OF   THE   SHADOWS.       PART    I EVENING 

DEDICATION" 118 

AMO    119 

LOVE'S  VAGARIES 119 

A    PORTRAITURE     120 

REMBRANDTESQUE     121 

ON    GUARD 122 

MY  LOVE   IS  LIKE   THE  VASTNESS   OF  THE   SEA 122 

FLOWER  AND  THORN 123 

THE    STATUE     124 

SIGN    AND    SYMBOL     124 

A   FANTASY 125 

IN  THE  SHADOWS 125 

DOOM     126 

INTERLUDE     127 

OUT  OF  THE  SHADOWS.      PART  II MIDNIGHT 

COMPLAINT 128 

MARAH     129 

SYMPATHY   129 

NATURE'S  MINISTRY   130 

IF  rr  WERE 130 

FORESHADOWINGS 131 

GONE     131 

SUPPLICATION 132 

UNREQUITED    132 

A    FEAR     133 

DESOLATION 133 

A    WINTER    HOPE     134 

BY   THE    SEA    135 

IN  SPRING 136 

FORGET-ME-NOT     136 

THE    MINIATURE     .  .  137 


CONTENTS  OF  ROWEN— Continued 

LOVE'S  CONSOLATION  137 

DEATH'S  MYSTERY   138 

I  KNOW  THEE,  DEATH  138 

DEATH  AND  NIGHT 139 

BRING  THEM  NOT  BACK 139 

ALONE,  YET  NOT  ALONE 140 

RETURNED     140 

A   JEWEL    141 

LOVE'S  MIST   141 

A  LOVER'S  PSALM 142 

A    VIGIL    143 

THE  MORNING  COMETH   144 

IN  THE  TWILIGHT 144 

HEART'S  EASE  146 

INTERLUDE    147 

OUT  OF  THE  SHADOWS.      PART   III MORNING 

AT    DAWN     148 

DOWN  THE   LANE 149 

A   BIRTHDAY   SONG 149 

LOVE    BROOKS    NOT   DELAY 150 

A    MEMORY     151 

INCOGNITO     151 

AN  IDYL  OF  LIFE 152 

SONG     152 

LEAVE   ME   NOT  YET 153 

CARMEN  NOCTIS 154 

HESPEH      156 

MORNING  SONG   157 

FIOR  DI  LEVANTE 158 

A  LOVER'S  VESPER  SONG 159 

APOLOGY     160 

THIS  TRUTH  THE   WORLD'S 161 

SONG     .  ,.    161 


CONTENTS  OF  ROWEN— Continued 

LOVE'S     HEALING     162 

MY  LADY 163 

LOVE'S  MIRROR   164 

THE  DREAM   165 

SONG      166 

REVELATION      167 

CAROL      168 

ALL'  ALBA 169 

LOVE  DOTH  NOT  IN  CASTLES  DWELL 170 

LOVE  HATH  COME  TO  ME  171 

A  SONG  OF  THE  SUNSET 172 

OVERWROUGHT 174 

DOUBTED      175 

THE    GIFT     176 

FORBEARANCE  177 

LOVE'S  VICTORY 178 

RECOMPENSE  179 

EPINICION 180 

L'ENVOY — AN  AUTUMN  SONG   . .  181 


TEMPLE   BELLS 

FORGIVEN      185 

RAIN    ON    THE    SEA     185 

WINTER   SOLSTICE     186 

THE    CAGED    BIRD     187 

THE    CALL   OF   HOME 187 

THE  STRICKEN  KING 188 

CONSIDER    THE    LILIES     190 

HOMEWARD .  .' 191 

THE   COMING  OF  THE   KING 192 

PATIENCE      193 

WHEN    I    HAVE    LIVED    MY    LIFE 193 

THE   HUMAN   NEED 194 


CONTENTS  OF  ROWEN— Continued 

THE  ADVENT 195 

THE    LOVE    UNSPEAKABLE     196 

WHERE  ARE  THE  NINE? 197 

THOUGH   HE  SLAY  ME 198 

NOT    IN    VAIN     199 

IN    THE    STORM     200 

THE     YIELDED     WILT 200 

EASTER     MORNING     201 

WHEN    NIGHT    IS    PAST    203 

LABORAHE   EST   ORARE 203 

YE    HAVE   DONE    IT   UNTO    ME    204 

THE    GOLDEN    AGE     205 

RISEN       206 

THE     QUEST      207 

SUBMISSION    208 

AS    RAIN    ON    THE    MOWN    GRASS     208 

THE    REST 4 209 

THE  DIVINE  ASSURANCE    209 

ON  JUDAH'S  HILLS  210 

LIKE  AS  WE  ARE  211 

COMPENSATION       212 

FOR  SO   HE    GIVETH    HIS   BELOVED    SLEEP 213 

A    MORNING    ORISON     214 

VIA    CRUCIS 215 

AT    BETHLEHEM     216 

AND    THE    WORLD    KNEW    HIM    NOT     217 

LIFE  TRIUMPHANT    .  .                                                                    219 


For  the  courtesy  extended  in  permitting  the  re- 
publishing  of  many  of  the  following  verses,  grateful 
acknowledgments  are  due  to  Munsey's  Magazine, 
Ainslee's  Magazine,  Town  and  Country,  Sunday  School 
Journal,  Motion  Picture  Magazine,  Shadowland,  New 
York  Evening  Mail,  New  York  Morning  Telegraph  and 
Boston  Globe. 


SPRING   FLOWERS 

BY 
DORIS  KENYON 


THE  END  OF  THE  ROAD 

Ah!  'tis  in  sight  at  last— 

The  end  of  the  long,  long  way; 

The  toil  and  the  travail  are  past; 
The  night  falls,  cool  and  grey. 

Where  are  the  comrades  boon 

With  hearts  to  adventure  addressed, 
Who  greeted  the  morning  and  noon 

With  laughter  and  song  and  jest? 

Onward  I  go  with  dauntless  feet 

To  the  end  of  the  last  far  mile — 

In  my  heart  one  memory  sweet, 

And  the  light  of  a  deathless  smile. 


SERENADE 

Is  it  a  dream  of  the  dawn, 

Or  the  moon  behind  the  hill. 
Or  the  marsh-fire's  glow  that  pales 

On  the  fenlands  dark  and  still? 

Or  is  it  the  dogwood  shakes 

Its  brede  of  shimmering  stars 

In  the  long  dim  aisles  where  the  night-moth 
Crosses  the  shadowy  bars? 

Here  in  the  cool  sweet  grass, 

Damp  with  the  beaded  dew, 
I  wait  for  the  glimmer  of  warm  white  hands 

And  the  silver  voice  of  you. 


10 


THE   COLUMBINE 

Like  a  jewel  trembling 

At  a  lady's  ear, 
In  this  lonely  woodland  place, 

Lo!  I  found  thee,  dear. 

Among  the  dazzling  beauties 
In  haunts  of  royalty, 

E'en  in  the  courts  of  Solomon, 
None  was  arrayed  like  thee. 


11 


THE  HERMIT  THRUSH 

He  sent  from  out  the  hollow  dusk 

His  bell-like  vesper  call, 
And  through  the  twilight's  dews  and  musk 

Like  prayer  it  seemed  to  fall. 

Then  the  small  creatures,  born  of  day, 

Hid  in  their  coverts  deep, 
While  through  the  evening,  cool  and  gray, 

Night  brought  her  gift  of  sleep. 


12 


THE  LIVING  PAST 

"La  passe  n'est  pas  une  chose  morte." 

The  past  is  not  a  dead  thing,  ah,  how  true! 

Though  in  a  rose  jar  we  would  lay  it  by 
And  from  each  passing  morn  pluck  blossom  new 

That  in  their  turn  at  last  must  fade  and  die. 
The  past  still  lives:  its  tendrils  creep  and  clasp 

About  our  lives  for  ever  more,  and  hold 
Our  days  and  hours  within  their  tender  grasp, 

Like  chains  of  steel  or  links  of  beaten  gold: 
Whether  for  weal  or  woe,  we  still  must  keep 

The  joy,  the  grief  that  seasons  dark  or  bright 
Have  brought  us,  till  across  time's  vasty  deep, 

Like  a  smile  breaking  through  a  shower  of  tears, 

God's  shining  promise  spans  the  cloudy  years. 


13 


DANDELIONS 

Laughing  and  careless,  as  of  old. 

The  spendthrift  summer,  through  the  land, 
Has  passed  and  dropped  these  discs  of  gold 

From  out  his  idle  hand. 


THE   DESPOILER 

How  fascinatingly  cruel  you  are! 

You  wrench  my  thoughts  away  from  me 

When  I  try  so  hard  to  keep  them. 

You  hold  them  up  before  you  like  colored  toys 

And  laugh  in  bold  derision 

When  you  grind  them  under  your  heavy  heel  .  .  . 

In  the  cool  of  the  evening  I  silently  steal  forth 

And  gather  them  up — 

Poor  crushed  rose  leaves. 


THE  SEEKER 
Reprinted    from    "The    Harvest    Home" 

He  sought  it  in  life's  fresh  and  dewy  morn; 

In  misty  woodlands  where  the  shadows  lay; 
In  summer  fields  amid  the  ripening  corn; 

In  meadows  sweet  with  hay. 

Nor  khamsin  winds  nor  winter's  vulpine  tooth 

Could  daunt  him,  nor  a  thousand  anxious  fears, 

For  still  he  sought  the  fount  of  endless  youth 
Through  long  and  bitter  years. 

Nor  did  he  find  it  on  the  hoary  hills. 

Among   whose   splintered   crags   he   toiled   in    vain. 
Where  the  long  thunder  rolls  and  torn  cloud  spills 

Its  cold  and  barren  rain. 

He  sought  it  by  the  ocean's  tawny  sands; 

Amid  forgotten  cities,  gray  and  old; 
Love  could  not  woo  him  with  her  beckoning  hands, 

Nor  friendship,  fame  nor  gold. 

Then  to  the  desert  turned  his  weary  feet, 
The  unattained  still  luring  all  his  soul, 

Till  his  strained  eyes  athwart  the  dazzling  heat 
Beheld  at  length  his  goal. 

And  there  he  digged  with  heart  grown  old  and  seared, 
Until  he  found  the  spring,  when  lo!  he  stood 

Ringed  round  with  mountains  he  himself  had  reared, 
And  perished  in  the  solitude. 


15 


THE  REFUGE 

As  autumn  leaves  whirl  from  the  trees, 

Or  the  last  leaguered  rose 
Before  the  onset  turns  and  flees, 

When  the  fell  north-wind  blows; 

Or  as  a  butterfly  is  borne, 

With  rain-wet  vans  enmeshed, 

High  o'er  the  bowed  and  beaten  corn 
Midsummer  hail  has  threshed; 

So  turns  my  heart,  in  storm  and  scath, 
To  find  your  sheltering  breast, 

Wherein  to  hide  from  scorn  and  wrath. 
As  in  its  own  dear  nest. 


16 


THE  EVIL  DEED 

Its  ever  widening  circles  fold  us  all; 

None  can  escape  beyond  its  prisoning  bound; 
And  howsoe'er  we  strive  and  weep  and  call, 

Its  fatal  spell  shall  ring  our  footsteps  round. 


17 


HIS   NAME 

'Twas  fluted  by  the  birds 

In  the  hollow  of  the  hills; 

It  chimed  in  the  crystal  bells 
Of  a  thousand  bubbling  rills  - 

His  name,— beloved  name!— 
Which  in  my  avid  ears 

Is  sweeter  far  than  all 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 


THE  POOL  ON  THE   PAVEMENT 

Reprinted  from  "The  Harvest  Home" 

All  the  long,  dreary  day  the  skies  had  wept, 
Till  o'er  the  world  the  night  fell,  hushed  and  cool, 

Then  dried  their  tears — and  on  the  pavement  slept 
A  little  pool. 

Within  its  mimic  depths  the  sudden  glare 

Of  swaying  street-lamps  scattered  shimmering  beams. 
But  once  more  in  the  dark  it  hid  and  there 

Resumed  its  dreams. 

O'erhead  the  clouds,  unshepherded  and  wild, 

Parted  and  fled  to  the  night-hills  afar, 
And  in  the  pool's  dim  sky  dawned  undefiled 

One  radiant  star. 

Anon  a  flower-decked  bride  passed  on  her  way, 

Her  happy  face  reflected  at  her  feet; 
And  a  night-prowler,  like  a  bird  of  prey, 

Sped  through  the  street; 

And  for  an  instant  glimmered  in  the  glass, 
Like  a  pale  wraith,  his  scarred  and  evil  face, 

Then,  as  a  vapor  vanisheth,  did  pass 
And  leave  no  trace. 

A  drunken  woman,  cradling  in  her  arm 

A  wailing  infant,  staggered  slowly  on, 
Glimpsed  in  the  pool  her  image  with  alarm, 

Cursed,  and  was  gone. 


10 


But  now  the  clouds  roll  from  the  sky's  vast  blue; 

The  noise  and  tumult  of  the  city  cease; 
In  the  shrunk  pool  the  star  shines  out  anew, 

And  night  breathes  peace. 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  DAWN 

Now  on  the  hill  the  dewy-lidded  dawn 

Wakes  from  her  sleep,  and  countless  feathered  throats 
Break  into  song;  fondling  her  nuzzling  fawn 

The  soft-eyed  doe  hears  the  thin  bell-like  notes 
Of  distant  hayings,  then,  with  startled  ears, 

Leaps  to  her  feet;  now  from  the  mountainside 
The  hounds  give  tongue  more  clearly,  while  her  fears 

Wring  the  poor  mother's  heart,  and  down  the  wide, 
Cool  intervale  she  leads  her  panting  child, 

Seeking  some  thicket  deep  where  they  may  lie 
In  safety;  vain  the  morning  sweet  and  mild; 

Alas !  for  them  the  hour  has  come  to  die. 


21 


METAMORPHOSIS 

The  while  I  breathed  the  night's  elusive  musk, 
And  caught  the  fragrance  of  the  falling  dew, 

1  saw  a  lily  swaying  in  the  dusk, 
And  lo!  'twas  you! 


THEIR  GRAVES  IN  FRANCE 

Silent  they  lie  with  upturned  faces, 
All  white  and  cold  and   stark, 

In  the  war-wasted,  shell-torn  places, 
Wrapt  in  the  tender  dark. 

Above,  a  linnet   thrills  his  lay, 

A  clear- voiced  threnody; — 
They  had  their  dreams  of  yesterday ; 

Tomorrow's  faith  have  we. 

Xo   rumor  of  Time's  ceaseless  strife 
Disturbs  their  house  of  rest; 

What  though  they  died?— they  still  have  life, 
Who  gave  the  world  their  best. 


BEYOND  RECALL 

The  buds  came,  but  my  eyes  were  sealed; 

The  windflowers  danced  about  my  feet; 
From  leafy  dell  and  smiling  field 

The  vernal  airs  blew  sweet. 
Yet  deaf  and  blind,  with  spirit  bleak, 

I   passed  upon  my  stolid  way; 
But  when  the  first  snow-flake  smote  my  cheek, 

I  mourned  for  my  lost  May. 


24 


THE  MOUNTAIN 

Like  a  hooded  nun  it  kneels. 

While  the  dark  sky  o'er  it  broods; 
Time,  unceasing,  round  it  wheels, 

Vexing  not  its  solitudes. 

Cloud  and  shadow,  storm  and  light — 
These  in  turn  have  o'er  it  ranged; 

Stars  have  gemmed  its  brow  by  night; 
Change  hath  left  it  still  unchanged. 

Human  passions,  human  fears, 

Sorrow,  strife,  all  pass  it  by — 

Safe  amid  the  weltering  years, 
Fixed  in  its  eternity. 


THE    TEARDROP 

Reprinted  from  "The  Harvest  Home" 

A  star  slips  softly  from  the  sky, 

In  the  hush  of  dusk,  out  of  the  blue: 

It  is  God's  teardrop,  from  on  high, 
For  He  has  disappointments,  too. 


A   BOLT   FROM  THE   BLUE 

In  the  cloud-shadowed  hills 
The  thunder  mutters  low. 

And  falls  from  the  arching  blue 
A  sudden  blinding  blow. 

Shattered  and  riven  it  stands, 
Which  but  a  moment  since 

Lifted  its  leafy  crown 

Proudly   as  any  prince. 

No  more  shall  the  birds  nest  there, 
Nor  its  branches  woo  the  sun; 

O  stricken  heart  of  me, 
Thy  day  is  also  done. 


27 


THE  PLAY 

And  still  the  play  goes  on,  nor  ever  palls — 
Laughter  and  comedy  and  mock  despair; 

But  nightly,  as  the  final  curtain  falls, 

Mirth  doffs  her  mask  to  show  the  face  of  Care. 


TO  LOUISE  VON  FEILITZSCH. 

O  thou  who,  in  the  shadow  of  an  hour 

When,  in  the  doubtful  scale  of  blame  or  praise 
Ambition  quivered  to  defeat,  couldst  raise 

A  voice  of  cheer  to  give  a  faint  heart  power; 

O  thou  who  boldest  as  a  priceless  dower 

That  golden  largess  which,  forsooth,  outweighs 
The  richest  gains  of  those  whose  empty  days 

Are  passed  in  ignorance  of  Truth's  white  flower — 

Receive  this  song  as  a  poor  testament 

Of  that  I  feel,  though  yet  it  can  but  fail 

To  give  e'en  faintest  voice  to  ardors  blent 
With  gratitude,  and  hope  no  longer  frail; 

For  that  to  me  the  sweeter  faith  is  lent 
Of  fullest  recompense  beyond  the  Vail. 


THE    PARTING 

The  waters  'mid  their  lilies  slept; 

Wood-odors    wrapt    me,   sweet   and    wild; 
Below,  where  trailing  willows  wept, 

A  mirrored  heaven   smiled. 

And  as  I  watched  the  moveless  tide, 
Two  birds  met  in  the  midmost  blue 

A  moment,  touched,  then  circled  wide 
And  from  each  other  flew — 

Flew  far  away,  nor  met  again, 

One  winging  east,  one  winging  west; 

And  suddenly  an  ancient  pain 

Pierced  my  remembering  breast. 


TO  FRANCOIS 

Addressed  to  one  who  claimed  to  be  the  reincarnation 
of  Francois  Villon 

Dear  Francois,  surely  I  recall 

The  nights  of  May,  the  days  of  June, 
In  that  old  century  when  all 

The   feathered  songsters  were  in  tune, 
And  roses  blushed,  as  maids  could  not, 

And  men  were  brave  to  wield  the  blade. 
Ah!  Francois,  I  have  half  forgot 

For  many  years  you've  been  a  shade. 

Dear  minstrel,  I  cannot  forget 

How  at  my  lattice  you  would  stand, 
And  while  the  vines  with  dew  were  wet, 

The  vibrant  strings  beneath  your  hand 
Thrilled  with  the  passion  that  they  spoke; 

What!  is  that  vagrant  passion  true? 
Are  all  those  singing  strings  not  broke? 

And  is  it,  Francois,  so  with  you? 

Ay,  if  it  be  that  you  can  come 

To  visit  me  once  more  on  earth. 
And  wake  the  lute  for  centuries  dumb, 

And  fill  Time's  cobwebbed  halls  with  mirth, 
Then  leave  the  brawlers  and  the  wine, 

The  taverns  and  the  wenches  rude, 
And  under  starlight  still  divine 

Prove  to  me  that  vou  now  are  rrood. 


31 


Envoi 

Poet,  the  hours  will  never  stay; 

And  beauty  wanes  as  roses  fade; 
I  am  a  maiden  of  to-day — 

Prove  to  me  you  are  not  a  shade. 


FRANCOIS  ENTREATED 

Ah,  Francois,  dear, 
Shall  I  not  hear 
Your  voice  again 
In   love's   sweet   strain? 
And  shall  your  lute 
At  last  lie  mute. 
Its  chords  unstrung, 
Its  songs  unsung? 

Can  you  forget, 

When  dews  were  wet 

Upon  the  leaf. 

The  ancient  grief, 

The  wild  unrest 

That  filled  your  breast, 

Because  at  last 

All  love  seemed  past? 

Why  should  you  grieve? 
Ah,  dear,  believe 
That  o'er  despair, 
O'er  pain  and  care, 
O'er  gulfs  of  time, 
In  some  fair  clime, 
'Mid   softer   skies 
Our  star  shall  rise. 

Resume  your  lay; 
Once  more  the  day 
Shall  put  to  flight 
The  fears  of  night; 
Nor  ever  dream — 
WThate'er   may    seem — 
Your  notes  shall  fall 
Unheeded  all. 


TO  THE   BARD   OF   VAGABONDIA 

When  from  the  new-mown  fields  is  borne 

A   fragrance  through  the   summer   dusk, 
And  from  the  censers  of  the  morn 

The  roses  spill  their  heavy  musk — 
Then,  Francois,  lift  your  voice  once  more 

And  touch  the  ribboned  lute  to  song. 
And  at  my  casement,  as  before, 

Your  tender  lays  of  love  prolong. 

Come  when  the  night  lies  on  the  land, 

Or  when  the  dawn  is  in  the  skies; 
Leave  at  the  inn  the  brawling  band, 

The  bacchic  crew  with  blood-shot  eyes, 
The   frowsy  beards,   the  tangled  hair, 

And  to  my  door,  dear  vagrant,  rove, 
And  in  the  cool,  pellucid  air 

Sing,  as  of  old,  your  deathless  love. 


3-1 


THE  SOLE  REMEMBRANCE 

I  know,  Love,  I  shall  nevermore 

Walk  with  you  down   familiar  ways, 

Nor  see  the  human  guise  you  wore 
Beside  me  in  the  old,  sweet  days. 

And  when  fond  Memory  strives  to  paint 
Upon  the  shadows  your  dear  face, 

She  trips  and  falters  and  grows  faint, 
Seeking  each  lineament  to  re-trace. 

Yet — strange  Time  mocks  us  thus,  the  Churl! 

Of  all  your  witchery,  I  recall 
Only  the  wayward  golden  curl 

That  o'er  your  forehead  used  to  fall. 


IN  A  NORTHERN  WOODLAND 

The  fragile  twin-flower  hides 

In  the  cool  of  the  braided  grass, 
And  its  faint  sweet  perfume  rides 

On  the  zephyrs  as  they  pass; 
The  fairies  chime  its  slender  bells 

At  morn  and  noon  and  eve. 
Where  fireflies  in  the  twilight  dells, 

Their  magic  dances  weave. 

To  the  pale  Indian  pipe 

A  fluttering  night-moth  clings, 
And  when  the  witching  hour  is  ripe 

About  their  mystic  rings 
Featly  the  fairies  foot. 

While  the  twin-flower  bells  chime  on, 
And  swiftly  from  his  hollow  root 

A  gnome  peeps  and  is  gone. 


36 


WELTSCHMERZ 

What  is  it  the  green  leaves  whisper 

When  the  year  is  young  and  bright, 
And  the  leaves  that  are  sere  and  crisper 

In  the  wan  October  night? 
The  river  grieves  to  the  sallow, 

The  mountain  weeps  to  the  plain, 
The  mint  sighs  low  to  the  mallow, 

And  the  wind  wails  over  the  main. 

The  yellow  sunshine  lieth 

On  the  face  of  the  waning  year, 
Like  a  pallid  smile  that  dieth 

On  the  tremulous  lips  of  fear; 
There's  a  sorrow  too  deep  for  dissembling, 

There's  an  anguish  too  keen  to  betray, 
There's  a  terror  too  fearful  for  trembling, 

There's  a  pallor  more  pale  than  the  day. 

There's  a  secret,  a  heartache,  a  trouble, 

A  mystery  of  misery,  a  sign 
That  floats  upon  time,  as  a  bubble 

Swims  on  the  cool  surface  of  wine; 
The  heart  of  the  great  world  is  throbbing 

With  an  old  inarticulate  pain, 
And  the  sound  of  the  sea  is  its  sobbing, 

And  its  tears  are  the  falling  rain. 


THE  SUICIDE 

Too  weary  to  lift  my  head; 

Too  weary  almost  to  die; 
And  when  at  length  I  am  dead, 

What  matters  it  where  I  lie? 

Short  shrift — and  a  nameless  grave; 

A  breath — and  a  sudden  leap; 
Then  the  closing  of  the  wave— 

And  sleep,  ah,  sleep ! 


DISILLUSIONMENT 

The  veil  of  the  future  baffled  me 

When  I  would  fain  see  through, 

Though  'twas  only  a  web  of  fairy  wings 
Woven  of  light  and  dew. 

A  soft  breeze  rituplecl  the  curtain — 
A  shimmering  mist  of  blue; 

Oh,  why  was  there  torn  a  tiny  rift? 
Oh,  why  did  I  see  through? 


IN  THE  GARDEN 

By  the  firefly's  dancing  light, 

With  the  Indian  paint-brush,  dipt 
In  the  lucent  dews  of  night 

And  the  gold  of  the  cowslips,  tipt 
With  the  star-shine,  cold  and  faint. 

In  the  garden's  perfumed  close, 
Through  the  still  hours  the  fairies  paint 

The  velvet  leaves  of  the  rose. 

There  are  whispers  in  the  dark, 

Dim  echoes  of  past  hours, 
When,  ere  the  firefly's  spark 

Was  lighted  amid  the  flowers, 
A  fragrance  of  joy  and  youth, 

Begotten  of  love  and  desire. 
Kindled  a  glory  here,  forsooth, 

That  never  shall  expire. 


40 


FAILURE 

I  stood  upon  the  gray  dUTs  splintered  crest. 

And  saw  an  ousel  beat  with  weary  wing 
Above  the  rearing  eagre's  foaming  breast; 

Its  crying  stabbed  the  sky  and  seemed  to  ding 
To  the  low  clouds  that  swept  across  the  morn; 

And  as  I  watched,  the  bird  dropped  slowly  down, 

«,      *•      »>  ,      .  j»       i i  -m      + .     -m  _ 

nio^ier..   ..u..er^-.;   oro^er:    ^^^    iOr.om, 

it 


WHEN  YOU  CAME 

Beneath  cathedral  elms  I  wandered  lone; 

My  heart  was  numb;  for  me  the  summer  sun 
No  longer  with  its  old-time  splendor  shone; 

The  tale  was  told;  at  last,  my  life  was  done. 

An  oriole,  amid  the  boughs  o'erhead. 

Fluted  its  love-notes,  but  I  heard  them  not; 
My  eyes  were  darkened  and  my  soul  seemed  dead ; 

A  cloud  lay  on  the  landscape  like  a  blot. 

And  then  you  came,  and  all  my  pulses  stirred 
To  sudden  music;  o'er  the  earth  there  crept 

A  flush  of  bloom;  you  smiled,  but  spoke  no  word, 
Yet  in  my  soul  the  light  of  Hope  upleapt. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  FIREFLY 
Reprinted  from  "The  Harvest  Home" 

A   dewdrop  trembled   on   an   aspen   leaf; 

Above,  a  nightingale 
Sent  through  the  dark  his  first  low  note  of  grief, 

Above  the  shadowy  vale; 

And  as  that  note  throbbed  on  the  sentient  air. 

Wrung  from  a  heart  forlorn, 
The  dewdrop  slipped  into  the  dusk,  and  there 

A  firefly  was  born. 


FOREKNOWN 

Lieut.  E.  B.  P.,  killed  in  action,  France,  Sept.  14,  1918. 
Reprinted  from  "The  Harvest  Home" 

I  dreamed  and  I  awoke,  the  morning  light 
Streamed  o'er  my  bed — it  was  no  longer  night. 

He  died  in  France,  and  I  was  with  him,  though 
We  were  three  thousand  miles  apart;  for  lo! 
He  called  me  to  him  and  I  saw  him  die 
A  hero's  death;  beside  him  there  I  knelt, 
My  arm  beneath  his  head.     He  knew  I  felt 
Repaid  while  sharing  his  great  sacrifice, 
In  that  wild  night  beneath  the  alien  skies. 

I  did  not  need  to  hear  the  fatal  word 
That  came  at  length;  already,  when  I  heard 
The  woful  message,  it  was  known  full  well 
That  yonder  in  the  awful  din,  he  fell, 
Laying  upon  the  altar  of  his  God 
The  blood  wherewith  he  dewed  the  shell-torn  sod: 
And  though  I  miss  him,  yet  my  heart  the  while 
Like  his  is  tranquil,  for  I  saw  him  smile. 


SHADOWS 

Over  the  darkened  woodlands  a  shadow  slowly  creeps; 

The  moving  mists  are  dimly  shredding  a  raveled  skein ; 
While  under  the  trailing  branches  the  umbered  water 

sweeps. 

And  after  the  mountain  glooms,  seen  through  a  veil 
of  rain. 

Never  a  life  goes  by  but  has  its  shadowy  days, 

Some  bitter  hours  of  pain,  some  weird  it  must  dree; 
For  human  feet  ne'er  yet  walked  in  endless  sunny  ways; 
And    every    heart    comes     sometime    to    its    lone 
Gethsemane. 


NAUGHTY   LUCILE 
Reprinted  from  "The  Harvest  Home" 

O  naughty  Lucile,  she  cam'  down  from  Quebec, 
Wis  ze  cheek  lak  ze  rose  an'  all  white  on  ze  neck, 
An'  she  work  ver'  mooch  as  a  couturiere 
In  ze  shop— what  you  call  'em — ze  dressmaker,  hey? 

Now  she  save  enough  monnee  to  buy  ze  fine  gown, 
Zen  she  go  to  ze  Astor  fer  tea; 
She  walk  up  an'  down,  all  ze  men  turn  aroun', 
An'  zay  gasp — at  what  zay  can  see. 

Oui,  naughty  Lucile,  she  mak'  all  ze  men  feel 
Zat  zay  're  mebbe  in  love  wis  her; 
Her  lips  are  lak  cherries,  her  tees  are  lak  pearls, 
Her  eyes — sacre"  Dame ! — zay're  not  lak  ozzer  girls'. 

O  naughty  Lucile,  she  mak'  all  ze  men  feel 

Zat  zay  'r  crazee  in  love  wis  her; 

She  say  zat  she's  dyin'  fer  love  an'  fer  kisses; 

Ze  men  say,  "I'll  save  her  if  zat's  what  she  misses." 

O  naughty  Lucile,  she  mak'  all  ze  men  feel 
Zat  zay  wish  to  mak'  marry  on  her; 
Une  tres  jolie  fille,  wis  ze  leetle  black  curl; 
Ah,  bon  Dieu !  but  I  say  she's  ze  bes'  lokin'  girl ! 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  HILLSIDE 

Reprinted  from  "The  Harvest  Home" 

At  night,  far  up  the  hillside,  faintly  shines 
A  tiny  light  that  trembles  like  a  star; 
What  lies  behind  its  small,  uncertain  beam 
The  dweller  in  the  valley  cannot  guess; 
And  yet,  perchance,  a  soul  that  harbors  there 
May  in  some  fateful  moment  touch  his  own. 

Within  a  humble  cottage,  by  the  stream 
That  threads  the  lonely  vale,  a  crippled  child 
Has  watched  as,  eve  by  eve,  the  dark  draws  down 
With  dusk  and  dews,  the  kindling  of  that  light, 
And  in  his  simple  heart  has  pictured  there 
A  happy  home  wherein  love  reigns  supreme. 

The  Child  Speaks 

Ah,  yonder  is  that  twinkling  light  again ! 

My  heart  is  glad  to  see  its  little  ray 

Piercing  the  dark  with  tidings  of  good  cheer. 

I  think  that  in  yon  home  are  sturdy  boys, 

Not  weak  like  me,  but  who  can  run  about 

And  play.    Some  day  when  I  am  big  and  strong 

I'll  climb  the  hill  and  tell  them  how  they  helped 

Me  in  my  heart  to  bear  the  cruel  pain. 

Each  night  before  I  sleep  I  pray  that  God 

Will  guide  and  guard  them  through  the  coming  years, 

Making  them  glad  as  they  have  gladdened  me, 

Though  they  have  never  known  the  ailing  boy 

Shut  in  Ins  room,  beyond  the  wide  green  fields. 


Behind  the  Light— A  Wife  Speaks 

Behind  the  guttering  candle  there  is  one 

Who  speaks  in  bitterness:  "At  last  you're  dead — 

Well,  you  will  never  know  the  poisoned  shaft 

You  winged  into  my  breast,  nor  yet  the  wreck 

Of  all  my  maiden  hopes  and  girlish  dreams. 

I  loved  you!  Hither  came  I  as  a  bride, 

And  now  you  die,  unwept  and  all  unloved. 

When  you  fell  sick,  through  the  long  midnight  hours 

I  watched  beside  your  pillow,  hopeless,  crushed, 

Despoiled  of  woman's  birthright.  For  I  knew 

You  lacked  the  wished-for  strength  to  clutch  my  throat 

In  grip  of  steel,  sparing  my  wretched  life 

That  you  might  only  torture  me  again. 

All  this  I  knew,  yet  never  left  your  bed 

Of  mortal  suffering.    What  held  me  there 

Until  this  hour  I  know  not,  lest,  perchance, 

It  was  some  subtle  influence  that  breathed, 

"Be  strong,  love  endeth  not  in  nothingness." 

Now  I  go  forth  into  the  voiceless  dark, 

Tearless,  alone,  yet  there  is  something  left 

That  cannot  wholly  perish  in  the  night."  .... 

Thus  who  shall  say  the  soul  which  lies  behind 

The  distant  light  shall  not  sometime,  somehow 

Meet  ours  and  save  us  with  its  healing  touch. 


THE  NEW  DAY. 

My  soul  sailed  out  on  the  river  of  night, 
In  a  moonbeam  shallop  it  took  its  flight, 
Out  toward  the  dark  and  threatening  main 
It  sailed  and  sailed — then  came  back  again: 

Came  back  again  in  a  glory  of  stars, 
Shattering  the  long  night's  iron  bars, 
Came  with  the  sign  of  a  new  fresh  morn 
Where  in  my  spirit  should  be  reborn. 

Ah,  yes,  I  dwelt  in  the  blackest  night 
Till  my  soul  sailed  out  on  that  moonbeam  bright, 
And  thou  saidst,  "I  will  love  thee,  my  own,  till  death," 
And  the  day  stole  up  with  the  morn's  sweet  breath. 


THE   HAVEN  OF  THE   HEART 
Reprinted  from  "The  Harvest  Home" 

Where  the  wild  wastes  of  waters  toss  and  seethe, 

And  maddened  whiteeaps  dash  against  the  cliffs, 
And  the  fierce  waves  round  rocky  headlands  wreathe 

Their  foamy  flowers  and  wreckage  heaves  and  drifts 
She  stands  at  gaze  above  the  angry  tide, 

Beholding  from  her  crag  the  laboring  bark, 
And  prays  her  own  may  safely  reach  her  side, 

As  the  ship  staggers  shoreward  through  the  dark. 

On  life's  wide  threshold,  with  meek,  gentle  eyes, 

A  maiden  stands  and  looks  with  half  affright 
Upon  the  world's  mad  ways,  the  threatening  skies, 

And  the  long  shadows  that  forecast  the  night; 
And  wonders  in  her  tender  heart  if  he, 

Her  own  true  love,  will  safely  win  her  side, 
Bringing  to  her  the  treasure  that  shall  be 

The  crown  and  glory  of  his  waiting  bride 


50 


REFUSAL 

Lord  Christ,  if  all  the  shells  were  pearls, 
And  all  the  sands  were  gold, 

And  the  sunk  galleons  of  the  sea 
Should  yield  their  wealth  untold; 

Yet  these  to  Thee  were  less  than  naught, 

Than  atoms  of  the  dust, 
Couldst  Thou  from  our  reluctant  hearts 

Claim  but  the  smallest  trust. 

The  grass  its  incense  lifts  to  Thee 

For  casual  rains  and  dews, 
But  we,  the  almsmen  of  Thy  love, 

Our  gratitude  refuse. 


51 


IN  AN  AIRPLANE 
Reprinted  from  "The  Harvest  Home" 

Gently  the  ground  sank  from  me  ere  I  knew; 

My  heart  leaped  up  as  breaking  earth's  last  bond; 

The  trees  in  huge  bouquets  a  moment  swayed 

Like  rushes  round  a  pond. 

Busy  within  their  pigmy  colonies, 

Below  I  saw  the  toiling  human  ants — 

Then  they  were  gone.    Ah !  now  I  know  whence  come 

Our  dreams;  they  dwell  where  sunrays  wink  and  glance 

Among  the  rose-hued  clouds  which  break  away 

In  fragments,  as  soft  breezes  earthward  play; 

And  sailing  by,  I  saw  dim  forms  that  knelt 

Before  an  altar  like  pale  nuns  in  gray. 

I  was  a  bird — on  pinions  wide  I  swept 

Upward,  forever  upward  still  I  kept; 

I  felt  no  earthly  fetters  binding  me, 

For  I,  at  last,  was  free. 


UNE  PENSEE 

If  all  the  world  were  but  a  barren  waste. 
And  in  it  naught  but  God  and  I  and  you — 

If  in  your  hands  my  love  a  sceptre  placed, 
And  proudly  I  became  your  vassal  true — 

I  think  some  poignant  pain  of  happiness, 

Some  dear  despair,  through  all  my  veins  might  flow, 
Because,  howe'er  I  panted  to  confess, 

No  heart  save  mine  could  all  your  goodness  know. 


53 


THE  SECRET 

Each  flower  leans  its  tiny  ear 

Towards  the  dumb  earth  at  its  feet, 

As  though  it  waited  still  to  hear 
Some  secret,  wild  and  sweet, 

Of  lovers,  long  since  turned  to  dust, 

Who  once  strolled  down  this  grassy  lane, 

Breathing  undying  love  and  trust, 
Nor  passed  this  way  again. 


IN  OTHER  DAYS 

They  nod  and  pass;  in  other  days 

It  was  not   so, 
But  now  they  go  their  separate  ways 

As  strangers  go. 

Once  glory  ran  before  their  feet 

Along  the  grass, 
And  rainbows  round  them  seemed  to  meet 

O'er  seas  of  glass; 

And  morning  sang  mid  fire  and  dew, 

While  toward  the  skies 
Spiraled  in  the  unmeasured  blue 

The  butterflies.  - 

But  earth  no  more  with  joy  is  drenched; 

And  now,  alas! 
The  songs  are  hushed;  the  fire  is  quenched; — 

They  nod  and  pass. 


REFLECTIONS 

As  a  wild  flower,  by  a  stream, 

Leaning  to  view  its  own  fair  face, 
Sees  in  the  watery  mirror's  gleam 

The  sad,  inevitable  trace 
Of  Time's  rude  touch,  the  while  she  sheds 

Her  petals  all,  and  fades  and  dies, — 
So  the  vain  woman  sees  and  dreads 

The  delicate  tracery  round  her  eyes, 
Knowing,  by  this  first  sign  of  age, 
Time's  finger  moves  to  turn  the  page. 


THE  CONSTANT  PRESENCE 

Ah,  sweet  it  is,  when  morn  is  come, 

To  know  that  I  shall  meet  your  eyes, 

And  sweet,  when  birds  at  dark  are  dumb, 
To  hear  your  voice  as  stars  arise. 

For  you  are  never  absent,  dear; 

I  see  your  face  in  trees,  in  grass, 
In  shadows  when  the  dawn  is  near, 

In  sunlit  clouds  that  o'er  me  pass. 

And  when  the  night  lies  on  the  land 
And  all  the  world  is  lost  in  sleep, 

I  feel  the  light  touch  of  your  hand, 

And  know  you  still  love's  vigil  keep. 


57 


RENEWAL 

Time  keeps  its  old  accustomed  round; 

The  year  renews  itself  once  more; 
In  yearning  sky  and  quickening  ground 

Life  throbs  and  burgeons  as  before. 

The  bluebird  swells  his  throat  with  song; 

And  small  wing'd  creatures  without  name 
Stir  and  mount  upward,  as  along 

The  pastures  cowslips  run  like  flame. 

The  challenge  of  proud  chanticleer, 
The  mellow  lowing  of  the  kine, 

Make  jocund  music  far  and  near, 

While  singing  runlets  glance  and  shine. 

The  keen,  damp   scent  of   fresh-turned  mold, 
The  buds  with  vernal  showers  wet, 

Still  waken  memories,  as  of  old, 
All  poignant  with  a  wild  regret. 


5S 


RETRIEVAL 

The  old  grey  house  on  the  hill  waited, 

Waited  for  her  return ; 

It  yawned  lazily  and  seemed  to  stretch  in  the  noonday 

sun, 
But  its  heart  cried  out  for  its  beloved. 

The  violets  by  the  door  peeped  out  each  Spring, 
Trembling  with  expectancy; 
The  lilacs  beckoned  with  their  perfumed  arms 
Till  they  grew  tired  and  sadness  withered  them. 

One  day  a  white  butterfly  floated  up  the  path, 
Caressed  a  lilac  as  he  passed, 
Murmuring  with  a  weary  little  sigh: 
"Now  she  can  never  come,  but  she  sent  me; 
I — I  am  her  soul!" 


LOVE  AND  DOUBT 

Like  sands  that  trickle  from  the  grasp; 

Like  water  that  no  hands  can  hold; 
Like  winds  that  no  embrace  can  clasp; 

Like  mists  no  human  arms  can  hold — 
E'en  so  is  love  not  built  on  trust; 

A  love  distraught  by  doubts  and  fears, 
Is  like  a  handful  of  white  dust 

Tossed  in  the  whirlwind  of  the  years. 


BECAUSE  I  LOVE  THEE 

Because  I  love  thee,  all  the  world  is  fair; 

Tender  the  starlight  on  the  shadowy  hill; 

The  drowsy  flowers  their  dewy  fragrance  spill 
From  censers  lightly  shaken  on  the  air, 
And  down  the  slopes  of  the  long  uplands,  where 

The  pastured  kine  with  their  soft  breathings  fill 

The  listening  night,  a  thin  grass-netted  rill 
With   sweet   complaints   shakes   loose   its   tangled   hair. 

But,  O  my  love,  because  thou  art  the  light 

That  bathes  all  loveliness,  and  sows  the  morn 

With  flakes  of  golden  fire,  and  girdles  night 

With  astral  gems,  the  earth  for  me  hath  worn 

A  robe  of  splendor,  and  the  world  is  dight 

With  fadeless  grace,  of  thine  own  beauty  born. 


61 


GHOSTS 

It  may  be,  ay,  it  may  be,  who  can  tell?— 

That  down  these  moss-grown  crumbling  bricks  their 
feet 

Still  lightly  fall,  and  round  them,  wild  and  sweet, 
The  perfume  of  the  lilacs  weaves  its  spell, 
While  the  far  ululations  of  a  bell 

Haunt  the  cool  dusk  with  murmurs  soft  and  sweet; 

Ay,  here  upon  this  gray  old  garden  seat 
They  listen  to  the  thrush's  ritournel, 
And  while  they  watch  the  evening  shadows  fall, 

They  whisper  the  beloved  names  they  knew, 
Catch  distant  sounds  borne  through  the  interval 

'Twixt  day  and  night — each  dear,  familiar  clue 
Leading  them  back,  as  fond,  faint  voices  call, 

And  love  breathes  round  them  with  the  silvery  dew. 


LONGING 

Oh,  but  to  see  your  vanished  face  again; 
Feel,  as  of  yore,  the  old-time  poignant  thrill 
That  once  I  knew  when  all  your  love  was  mine; 
But  more  than  the  fond  whispers  of  your  heart, 
And  more  than  the  soft  pressure  of  your  hand, 
I  miss  the  understanding  in  your  eyes. 


AS  ONE  TO  ANOTHER 

Once  I  sat  on  a  cliff  and  said  to  a  garrulous  crow 

On  the  branch  of  a  dead  pine  near: 

"A  thousand  hands  are  knocking  at  my  heart, 

To  comprehend  the  secret  of  all  Life." 

Casting  upon  me  his  cool,  calculating  glance, 

Impatiently  he  cawed  me  his  reply: 

"It  would  be  lost  in  the  finding, 

And  is  found  in  the  seeking, 

And  that  is  why  from  wherever  I  am 

I  fly  away— 

I  never  reach  my  goal, 

Do  you?" 


GROTESQUERIE 

Why  is  it  that,  after  I  have  been  with  you,  I  see  things 
so  strangely? 

A  boat  in  a  mist  at  sea  seems  like  a  cloud  that  has 
grown  tired  of  hanging  in  the  sky 

And  is  resting  on  a  wave. 

A  flash  of  scarlet  berries — as  though  my  heart  were 
held  to  a  mirror 

And  were  ready  to  be  plucked — 

Plucked  by  your  hand,  which  seems  gnarled  with 
strength, 

And  yet  clings  to  my  mouth  softly  like  nasturtium  ten- 
drils; 

Is  it  that  your  mind  is  strange  and  affects  me, 

Or  is  it  that  I  am  startled  by  my  own  mind's  reflection 
in  your  eyes? 


YOU 

I  thought  I  found  your  soul  hanging  on  a  snowball  bush, 

It  was  white  and  soft  and  flaky 

And  lay  caressingly  limp  in  my  hand; 

When  I  looked  closely 

I  found  it  was  brown  and  frayed  at  the  edges, 

And  lo!  while  I  puzzled, 

It  fell  quite  apart  and  left  only  a  dry  shell — 

Then  I  knew  I  had  found  vou  out. 


LILIES  OF  THE  VALLEY 

Lilies  of  the  Valley  are  the  tears  of  an  angel 

Which,  when  they  fell  one  vernal  day, 

Caught  and  hung  on  a  fairy  tree. 

Their  perfume  was  stolen  from  a  tiny  wind 

That  carried  in  its  arms  a  scent-bag, 

Which  was  pierced  by  the  bill 

Of  a  venturesome  hummingbird. 


(i? 


TWO  THINGS 

Yesterday  was  grey  and  heavy; 

The  strong  chill  air  on  the  Drive 

Seemed  to  twist  me  about  with  cruel  fingers 

Until  my  body  ached. 

I  passed  two  things  which  thrill  me  most: 

A  squad  of  soldiers,  in  dust-colored  uniform, 

Marching  with  heads  held  high; 

And  brushing  their  arms, 

Like  a  lily  by  the  roadside, 

Was  a  child  in  white  confirmation  robes; 

I  thought  — 

"Both  are  expressions  of  God." 


IMAGINATION 

I  gazed  afar  into  wet  spaces 

And  saw  a  grey  ship  kneeling  on  the  deep, 

Beseeching  heaven  with  its  sparry  hands  — 

When,  lo !  it  melted  to  a  cloud 

Torn  by  the  passion  of  its  lover — wind; 

Swiftly  it  became  a  bird. 

Pale  as  the  mists  which  swathed  it  round  .... 

Startled,  I  found  it  was  only  my  vagrant  thoughts 

Which  had  escaped  from  me — their  jailer. 


LAMP  SHADE 
From   the  French  of  Paul  Gtraldy. 

You  ask  me  why  I  sit  silent,  saying  nothing; 

It  is  because  that  strange  time  is  upon  us, 

The  hour  of  eyes  and  of  tender  smiles — the  evening! 

And  because  tonight  I  love  you — infinitely. 

Press  me  close,  I  have -need  of  caresses. 

Ah,  if  you  knew  all  that  rises  in  my  heart  tonight, 

Of   ambition,    of   pride,    of    desire,   of    tenderness    and 

even — of  goodness! 
But  no,  you  could  not  know  it 

Lower  the  lamp  shade  a  little,  will  you?  We  will  be 

closer; 

It  is  only  in  the  shadow  that  hearts  talk. 
And  one  sees  the  eyes  better  when  one  sees  less  of  things 

around  him. 

Tonight  I  love  you  too  much  to  speak  of  love. 
Press  me  against  your  breast; 
I  long  for  you  to  fondle  me. 
Lower  the  shade  a  little  more. 
There,  now  let  us  not  speak.     Be  quiet, 
And  do  not  move. 
Oh,  it  is  so  good  to  feel  your  warm  hands  on  my  face. 

What  is  it  now?    What  do  they  want? 

Oh,  it's  the  coffee. 
Ah  well !  set  it  there,— 
Now  go  quickly  and  close  the  door 

What  is  it,  that  I  have  been  saying  to  you? 
Shall  we  take  the  coffee  now?    You  prefer  it? 
That's  true,  you  like  it  hot. 


70 


May  I  serve  you?  Wait,  I'll  do  it. 

Some  sugar?     One  lump  is  enough?     Shall  I   laste  it' 

There,  here  is  your  cup,  love. 

My!  how  dark  it  is!    One  cannot  see  at  all — 

Oo  turn  up  the  lamp  a  little. 


PERVERSENESS. 

Two  lovers  wooed  me:  one  with  ready  smile 

Greeted  me  blithely,  but  my  pulse  stirred  not ; 

The  other  met  me  with  a  frown  the  while, 

And  lo!  my  heart  sang  and  I  blessed  my  lot 


71 


WHY? 

Why  is  it  that  the  autumn  sun  grows  chillier, 

Seems  to  be  more  distant,  and  welcomes  the  keen  winter 

winds? 
Is  it  because  it  has  grown  tired  of  trying  to  forget  in 

brilliant  shining 
And  in  despair  pales  in  its  remembering? 

Why  is  it  that  the  roseleaves  fall  gently  to  the  earth?— 
As  if  they  suddenly  recalled  an  ancient  pain, 
After  trying  in  radiant  blooming 
To  forget  the  bitter  past. 

Why  is  it  that  I  am  cold,  forlorn  and  old, 

And  welcome  the   fleeting   years  with   something   akin 

to  ecstasy? 
Ah,  love,  it  is  because  I  always  must  remember. 


MY  MESSAGE. 

I  will  sing  you  a  little  song 

Which  the  wind  will  blow  away; 

Will  it  blow  it  to  you,  I  wonder? 

I  like  to  feel  the  wind 

Tear  the  notes  from  my  lips; 

It  is  almost  as  if 

You  had  kissed  them  away. 


THE  VALENTINE 

May  gentle  spirits,  bright,  benign, 
Keep  ward  o'er  that  dear  life  of  thine; 
Be  this  my  wish — thy  valentine. 


73 


SILHOUETTES 

Beyond  the  sleeping  waters  gleam, 

Pallid  against  the  silent  night, 
Where  the  dark  pinetrees  brood  and  dream, 

Two  gravestones,  cold  and  white. 
Long  since  from  Time's  wild  ways  they  fled; 

The  chill  waves  wrapped  them,  breast  to  breast: 
And  now,  though  storms  may  rave  o'erhead, 

These  lovers  lie  at  rest. 


I  dreamed  I  was  in  Paradise; 

Beside  a  quiet  stream 
I  walked  beneath  the  golden  skies 

And  saw  thee  in  my  dream. 
I  heard  thy  tender  voice  again, 

Knew  with  thee  all  was  well; 
Then  I  awoke,  and  life's  old  pain 

Leaped  up  like  fires  of  hell. 

The  storms  their  cloudy  vans  have  closed 

That  once  about  me  whirled; 
Like  dead  leaves  swept  away  are  all 

My  darkling  doubts  and  fears; 
And  now  at  last  hope  beckons  where 

Wide  vistas  are  unfurled, 
O'erarched  with  light  like  rainbows  seen 

Through  sudden  mists  of  tears. 

Disaster  lies  behind  me.  all 

The  wreck  and  shame  and  dole 

Mid  which  my  hapless  feet  have  moved 
These  many  weary  years, 


74 


And  now  at  last  hope  beckons  where 
The   future  like  a   scroll 

Is  spread  before  my  wildered  eyes 
Grown  dim  with  sudden  tears. 


He  wooed  me,  but  he  was  not  bold; 

He  feared  to  give  offence; 
Yet  Heaven's  fair  kingdom,  as  of  old, 

Still  suffereth  violence. 
A  maid's  heart,  like  a  city's  gate, 

Is  carried  by  assault; 
But  they  who  love  and  hesitate 

Are  vanquished  for  their  fault. 


The  lily  spake  to  the  rose: 

"Hold  up  your  head,  if  you  are  fair; 
Why  should  you  bow  your  beauty  down, 

As  though  you  bore  a  load  of  care?" 
The  rose  to  the  lily  spake: 

"I  own  that  I  am  fair  to  see; 
Yet  to  the  grace  men  say  is  mine 

I  seek  to  add  humility." 


Ye  children  of  these  favored  years, 

The  promise  is  your  own, 
Behold!  Hope,  rainbow-girt,  appears, 

Truth  mounts  her  radiant  throne; 
Sing  while  the  gracious  moments  pass, 

Heirs  of  this  blessed  day, 
God's  sign  is  in  the  sunny  grass, 

June  winds  about  you  play. 


75 


ROWEN 

BY 
JAMES  B.  KENYON 


INSCRIPTION. 

Thou  whose  fond  eyes  in  sleep  were  never  sealed, 
When  love's  stern  ways  were  spread  before  thy  feet—- 
Thou who  didst  hope  and  pray,  and  watch  and  shield, 
When  death's  dusk  wings  against  my  windows  beat — 
Take,  O  my  mother,  these  poor  broken  sounds 
Of  singing;  for  while  in  their  dizzy  rounds 
Of  careless  pleasure,  men  might  heed  not  me 
Nor  my  small  pipe,  yet  praise  e'er  came  from  thee. 


THE  WANDERING  JEW 

I. 

Hier  liegt  mein  Lieb:  a  heart's  sad  history — 
A  song  of  grief — a  story  of  the  brave — 
A  marvel  of  the  past — a  mystery — 
A  buried  secret  of  an  unknown  grave. 
O  happy  mortal  who  could  live  and  die! 

0  happy  mortal  on  whose  brow,  at  birth, 
Was  writ  in  mystic  charactery,  "death!" 
'Tis  sweet  to  rest,  and  sweet  it  is  to  lie 
Beneath  the  flowers  and  the  cool  green  turf, 
And  sweet  to  lose  this  burden  of  the  breath: 

1  cannot  die.  nor  can  I  ever  rest. 

But  ceaseless  as  the  beating  of  the  surf 

Against  the  shore  my  heart  beats  in  my  breast, 

And  life  for  me  hath  naught  but  bitter  ills. 

O  lovely  are  the  sky  and  yon  green  hills, 

And  that  dear,  peaceful  spot  which  men  call  "home; 

But  lovelier  is  the  melancholy  grave 

To  me  who  cannot  die,  and  lovelier  all 

Its  rest  to  me  who  must  forever  roam. 

II. 

I've  seen  the  stars  in  heaven  come  and  go, 
I've  seen  men's  proudest  structures  rise  and  fall, 
I've  stood  on  desolate  shores  where  the  wild  wave 
Hath  ceased  to  roll,  and  rivers  stopped  their  flow, 
And  these  have  passed,  and  yet  I  cannot  die. 
The  things  I  once  loved  are  not;  long  ago 
They  dimly  came  as  half -remembered  dreams, 
Or  like  some  long- forgotten  melody 
Of  that  which  was  to  be,  is  not,  but  seems 
The  haunting  sorrow  of  another  life. 


79 


O,  fond  the  darling  kisses  of  my  wife, 
And  fond  to  me  the  memory  of  my  child, 
And  fond  the  light  of  tender  eyes  that  smiled 
For  me  alone, —  if  yet  indeed  I  be, 
And  am  become  not  part  of  things  I  see. 

HI. 

Here  is  a  lovely  thing — a  tender  flower, 

All  tinted  like  a  summer-sunset  sky, 

With  petals  smoother  than  a  maiden's  cheek 

And  bluer  than  the  blue  of  maiden's  eye 

Or  violets  beneath  an  April  shower; 

And  yet  it  blooms,  to  slowly  fade  and  die, 

As  yonder  tawny  lights,  that  lie 

On  evening's  breast,  grow  faint  and  weak. 

Fruit  in  autumnal  sunshine  melloweth, 

And  droppeth,  and  returneth  back  to  dust: 

All  things  speak  of  decay,  decay  and  death; 

I  only  cannot  die,  but  ever  must 

Live  on  remembering,  and  hope  and  wait. 

There  yonder  in  the  wood 

The  blithe  bird  carols  to  its  patient  mate 

Upon  the  nest,  or  to  the  clamorous  brood 

Returneth  home  at  eventide  with  food. 

I  only  am  alone;  for  me  waits  not 

A  gentle  mate  at  gladsome  eventide, 

Nor  joyful  voice  nor  child's  face  at  my  side, 

But  dolorous  and  lonely  is  my  lot. 

O  gracious  God!  to  be  always  alone, 

To  be  always  apart  from  humankind 

And  the  sweet  fellowship  of  heart  and  mind; 

Most  solitary  in  the  midst  of  men, 

No  voice  responsive  to  the  weary  "When," 

Is  cause  to  ever  grieve  and  make  unceasing  moan! 

80 


IV. 

Lo!  the  full- fraught  year, 

New-born  from  out  the  dark  To-be. 

Cometh  ever,  and  never  to  me 

Bringeth  death's  sweet  cheer. 

And  spring  and  summer  wane, 

And  ripe  is  the  golden  ear, 

And  the  harvester  gathers  in  his  sheaves, 

While  down  through  the  smoky  light  the  yellow  leaves 

Flutter  as  if  in  pain. 

And  the  river  floweth  by 

With  a  mournful  monody, 

With  an  under-sound  of  woe; 

And  the  brooklet  seeks  the  river,  and  the  river  seeks 

the  sea, 

And  is  lost  in  it  as  moments  are  lost  in  eternity; 
For  all  things  change  forever  as  the  ages  come  and  go, 
But  I  alone  remain  who  cannot  change  or  cease  to  be. 
Down  across  the  cycles  of  the  centuries  that  were 
Move   the   shadows   of   an   era   fraught   with   dole   and 

dread, 
When,  with  anguish  worn  and  bowed  beneath  the  cross 

he  had  to  bear. 
From  my  door  I  drove  the  Saviour,  heaping  curses  on 

his  head. 

V. 

I  have  watched  the  ripple  play 
Far  along  a  barren  beach, 
Till  upon  the  dim  blue  reach 
They  have  slowly  died  away; 
And  I've  marked  the  weary  day 
Sink  into  the  western  sea, 
And  athwart  the  twilight  gray 
The  red  moon  rising  o'er  the  lea; 

81 


And  my  old  sad  heart  within 

Hath  faintly  pulsed,  in  harmony 

With  some  far  music,  weak  and  thin. 

Till  I  fondly  hoped  to  die. 

But  the  wan   and  tremulous   fingers   of   the   chill   and 

pallid  dawn 
Have  groped  up  into  the  darkness  with  the  flaring  touch 

of  morn, 
And  the  mists  from  off  the  mountain  and  the  meadow, 

lake  and  lawn, 
Like  my  hopes  of  death,  have  vanished,  and  the  day  hath 

dawned  forlorn. 


VI 

Sweet  the  song  the  Hebrew  maid 

Sang  beside  the  well. 

And  sweet  the  sound  of  cithers,  played 

When  twilight  shadows  fell. 

But  oft  I  hear  the  mellower  music 

Of  an  ancient  rhyme, 

Chanted  to  a  little  stranger 

From  a  golden  clime: 

Then  I  see  the  mild-eyed  mother 

Smile  through  happy  tears, 

Until  the  vision  and  the  voice 

Are  lost  across  the  years. 

VII. 

The  friends  I  loved  in  turn  have  passed  away, 
Nor  mossy  mounds  mark  where  their  ashes  lie, 
But  on  their  graves  the  careless  children  play, 
And  pluck  the  flowers  beneath  a  sunny  sky, 
Nor  hear  the  sound  of  nature's  threnody: 
For  there  the  harvest  bee  makes  dirge  at  noon, 


And  unseen  voices  mourn  at  dewey  eve, 
And  underneath  the  light  of  summer  moon 
The  early  nightingale  begins  to  grieve. 
And  then  the  touch  of  loving  lips, 
And  pressure  of  a  clinging  hand, 
Come  back  through  memory's  soft  eclipse, 
From  out  the  Silent-land. 

VIII. 

What  is  it  trembles  everywhere, 
That  sobs  and  sinks,  as  sounds  of  shells 
When  the  great  ocean  heaves  and  swells 
And  booms  in  caverns  of  the  air? 
Then  fine  the  melody  as  thrills 
Along  the  branch,  when  bursting  buds 
Drink  in  the  rich  warm  light  that  floods 
The  plains,  the  valleys  and  the  hills. 

0  faint  and  far,  yet  strangely  sweet, 
Nor  wholly  sweet,  nor  wholly  sad, 
But  mixed,  like  laughter  of  the  glad 
With  mourners'  wailing  in  the  street. 

1  hear  the  sound  of  other  bells 
That  tinkle  on  the  robes  of  priests — 
Of  bells  that  peal  at  bridal  feasts, 

And  those  that  toll  death's  solemn  knells. 
All,  all  is  changed;  and  yet  I  go 
Unchanged  adown  the  shifting  years, 
But  catch,  at  last,  through  doubtful  tears, 
A  vision  of  my  sleep  below. 

IX. 

Beyond  the  hills,  against  the  sky, 
Roll  up  the  clouds  with  welcome  rain, 
And  o'er  the  forests,  dark  and  high, 
They  come  across  the  thirsty  plain. 


The  trees  and  shrubs  lift  up  their  heads; 
A  fluttering  breeze  is  breathing  low; 
Each  flower  its  petals  wide  outspreads; 
The  cattle  seek  the  milking  sheds, 
And  fowls,  wing-drooped,  to  shelter  run 
Till,  arched  athwart  the  sky,  God's  bow 
Announces  that  the  storm  is  done. 
And  then  the  fields  are  fringed  with  light. 
And  all  the  wood  begins  to  glow, 
And  through  the  meadows  swiftlier  flow 
The  glancing  runlets,  clear  and  bright. 
And  bursts  from  out  a  thousand  throats 
A  flood  of  song  in  bush  and  brake 
And  o'er  the  waters  of  the  lake, 
With  mellow  cadence,  falls  and  floats. 
The  meanest  thing  on  earth  is  glad — 
The  meanest  thing  instinct  with  life, 
Save  me  who,  with  my  doom  at  strife, 
Of  all  create,  alone  am  sad. 


O  sad  yon  valley  is  to  me, 

And  sad  yon  mountains  crowned  with  snow, 

And  sad  the  river's  ceaseless  flow 

Towards  the  ceaseless  sea. 

And  sad  the  huntsman's  distant  horn 

Across  the  hills  and  far  away, 

And  weary  is  the  break  of  morn, 

And  weary  night  and  weary  day. 

There  are  sweet  voices  call  from  out  the  past; 

There  are  sweet  voices  call  from  out  the  tombj 

A  voice  from  out  the  future  cries,  "At  last," 

And,  beckoning  me  from  out  the  sullen  gloom, 

My  own  dark  shape  before  me  ever  flits, 

Pale,  cold  and  sternly  calm,  as  when  one  sits 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  an  awful  doom. 

84 


TOWARDS  THE  SUNSET 


'Tis  high  noon  still — how  swiftly  will  it  pass, 
And  backward-creeping  shadows  slowly  fall 
O'er  the  long  slope,  while  crickets  pipe  and  call 

From  lonely  twilight  coverts  of  the  grass;— 

High  noon  o'er  steep  and  valley,  but  alas! 
Time  ne'er  will  furl  for  one  brief  interval 
His  tireless  pinions,  nor  yet  stay  the  small 

Still  sands,  like  years,  down  slipping  in  his  glass. 

Hasten  thy  footsteps,  dear;  love's  darkling  bower 
Shall  with  thy  coming  into  music  break; 

At  evening  thy  bright  presence  shall  have  power 
To  sow  the  vesper  dusk  with  many  a  flake 

Of  pulsing  fire.    Oh,  from  each  veiled  hour 
Let  us  with  tremulous  joy  its  largess  take. 


II. 

Beyond  the  opal-hearted  west  the  day 

Still  smiles  upon  the  world;  each  soaring  steep 

Is  clothed  with  splendor,  and  cloud-vistas  keep 
Pale  lilac-tinted  headlands  dashed  with  spray 
From  pearly  seas  that  round  them  roll  alway; 

Yet  even  now,  beyond  the  fulgent  deep, 

The  cohorts  of  the  dark  begin  to  creep 
From  umbered  lairs  like  hungry  beasts  of  prey. 
O  priestess  of  the  heart,  is  the  flame  cold 

At  which  a  worn  and  homesick  votary 
Would    fain   find   some   late   cheer? — and   now,   behold! 

I  wait  to  hear  thy  summons  unto  me. 
Bidding  me  enter  in,  ere  I  am  old, 

To  know  at  last  love's  sacred  ministry. 


ANTI  PHONAL 

He    O  fond  and  true,  O  perfect  love, 

In  whom  my  pulses  ebb  and  flow, 
About  thy  path  the  kind  stars  move; 

Peace  round  thee  breathes  where  thou  dost  go 

She    And  thou,  dear  heart,  shalt  be  to  me 

As  sun  to  flower;  through  thy  wide  arc 
My  grateful  soul  shall  follow  thee 

From  dewy  morn  to  perfumed  dark. 

Both    O  rapturous  days!     O  ecstasy 

Of  love's  delight  what  tongue  may  tell? 
Time  stays  its  flight  for  thee  and  me, 
Time  stays  its  flight,  and  all  is  well. 


THE   LEAVETAKING 

Life,  wilt  thou  leave  me  now;  o'er  all  the  way, 

Or  rough  or  smooth,  together  we  have  fared; 

The  selfsame  scanty  cruse  we  still  have  shared, 
And,  whether  Fortune  smiled  or  frowned,  were  gay. 
Duty's  stern  voice  hath  called;  we  did  not  stay 

To  doubt,  but  greatly  loved  and  greatly  dared; 

Tempests  have  beaten  on  us;  we  have  bared 
Our  lifted  brows  unshadowed  by  dismay. 

Dear  comrade  of  a  thousand  hardships  past, 
Of  tender  chidings,  confidences  sweet, 

Is  this  the  end,  and  must  we  part  at  last? 
Go  we  our  separate  ways  no  more  to  meet? 

The  silence  waits  us;  round  us  falls  the  vast 
Waste  night,  but  still  we  follow  Hope's  light  feet. 


87 


MYSTERY 

Upon  the  Verge  of  night  I  walked; 

Behind  me  sank  the  day; 
An  unseen  Presence  by  me  stalked 

Along  the  darkling  way. 

The  calm  and  awful  stars  looked  down; 

Where  icy  peaks  did  rise, 
The  boreal  aurora's  crown 

Paled  in  the  solemn  skies. 

Then  past  the  touch  of  love's  warm  hand, 
Beyond  thought's  utmost  mete, 

I  heard  against  life's  crumbling  strand 
Death's  sullen  billows  beat. 

O  universe  of  mystery! 

In  time's  vast  prison-place, 
Is  there  not  One  who  holds  the  key? 

Shall  we  not  see  his  face? 


88 


HAGAR 

Wide  wastes  of  sand  beneath  a  brazen  sky; 

Far  hills  that  shimmer  in  the  breathless  air; 

And  clumps  of  stunted  shrubs  that,  here  and  there, 
With  pale  and  parched  leafage,  vex  the  eye. 
Her  bread  is  spent,  her  water-skin  is  dry; 

The  child's  faint  sobbings  pierce  her  with  despair; 

Her  face  is  hid,  her  fallen  head  is  bare; 
"Now,  O  my  God,"  she  crieth,  "let  me  die." 

Hark!  from  the  midmost  heavens  a  deep  sound: 

"What  aileth  thee?    Rise,  Hagar,  fear  thee  not, 

For  God  hath  heard  the  child's  voice  from  the  ground, 
And  He  will  succor  thee  in  thy  sore  lot." 

Then  she  arose,  and  took  the  lad,  and  found 
A  crystal  fountain  in  that  desert  spot. 


FINEM    RESPICE 

O  nature,  take  me  to  thy  heart  once  more, 
Nor  let  the  mornings  be  less  bright  that  I 
Beneath  the  murmuring  leaves  and  flowers  lie, 

Nor  let  the  happy  birds  that  sing  and  soar 

Repeat  one  joyful  note  the  less,  that  o'er 

My  resting-place  the  summer  grass  is  high; 
I  would  not  that  to  any  human  eye 

The  world  should  be  less  lovely  than  of  yore. 

For  life  to  me  is  full  of  pleasantness. 

And  all  the  ways  of  earth   are   fresh  and   sweet: 
The  night  hath  breathed  upon  me  but  to  bless, 

And  morn  with  dew  hath  laved  my  eager  feet; 
So  when  the  cool  turf  on  my  brow  shall  press, 

Still  let  the  prosperous  seasons  o'er  me  meet. 


90 


DAY  BY  DAY 

Each  day  brings  with  it  its  own  care, 
Some  burden  of  desire  or  dread. 

Some  thorny  crown  of  pain  to  wear, 
Some  new,  strange  path  to  tread. 

E'en  while  we  sleep  Time's  secret  loom 
Its  busy,  noiseless  shuttle  plies, 

To  round  us  weave,  through  hours  of  gloom, 
Our  various  destinies. 

Yet  each  dark  thread  is  mixed  with  light — 
Assured  deliverance  with  distress, 

Weeping  with  laughter,  wrong  with  right, 
And  rest  with  weariness. 

For  morn's  diurnal  bounty  brings 

Its  punctual  good  naught  can  destroy — 

Some  flower  that  blooms,  some  bird  that  sings 
Some  sweet,  fresh  gift  of  joy. 


91 


BECALMED 

The  purple  skyline  round  the  dead  waste  sea 
Shimmers  athwart  the  palpitating  heat; 
Along  the  blistered  deck  no  scurrying  feet 

Are  heard,  nor  any  cheery  songs  to  free 

The  seaman's  treadmill  task   from  drudgery; 

Against  the  masts  the  sails  have  ceased  to  beat 
Their  light  tattoo,  while  windless  vapors  cheat 

The  haggard  eyes  that  watch  perpetually. 

O  soul  becalmed,  pray  God  some  breeze  may  fill 
Thine  idle  canvas,  and  the  wakened  deep 

Rise  and  dispute  thy  perilous  way,  until 

Thy  foam-wreathed  prow  shall  o'er  the  billows  leap, 

And  with  the  joy  of  conquest  all  a-thrill, 

To  port  at  last  with  pennons  proudly  sweep. 


92 


OCTOBER 

October  lights  her  watchfires  on  the  hill, 

For  the  days  hasten,  and  the  year  declines; 

The  dusty  grapes  droop  on  the  yellowing  vines, 
Plumped  with  the  sweets  these  last  warm  hours  distill. 
The  stream  that  loiters  downward  to  the  mill 

Wimples  amid  its  reeds  and  faintly  shines. 

At  intervals,  from  out  the  darkling  pines, 
The  squirrel  repeats  his  challenge,  loud  and  shrill. 

In  vain  the  sunlight  weaves  its  golden  snood 
About  the  Earth;  an  unseen  pillager, 

Night  after  night,  with  fingers  chill  and  rude, 
Despoiling  her  rich  beauty  plucks  at  her; 

While  morn  by  morn,  o'er  garden,  field  and  wood, 
The  hoar-frost  scatters  its  light  minever. 


THE  SUMAC 

It  holds  its  torch  aloft 

Undimmed  in  the  light  of  day, 
And  whether  the  airs  be  soft. 

Or  the  storms  about  it  play, 
It  abates  no  jot  of  its  beams, 

But  still  burns  on  and  on, 
Keeping  its  own  sweet  dreams, 

Till  life  sinks  low  and  is  gone 


WHEN  THE  DAY  DECLINES 

When  the  day  declines, 

And  the  night  is  near — 
When  the  low  sun  shines 

On   the  landscape  sere — 
Then,  while  shadows  creep 

Over  vale  and  height, 
Lo!  beyond  the  deep 

A  single  star  grows  bright. 

When  my  life  declines, 

And  the  night  is  near — 
When  the  low  sun  shines 

On  a  way  of  fear — 
Then,  while  shadows  creep 

O'er  my  glimmering  sight, 
Lo!  beyond  the  deep 

May  a  star  grow  bright. 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

How  have  the  years  flown  since  that  golden  day 
When,  where  the  Mulla  rolls  her  dimpling  flood, 
Thou  heard'st  the  birds  sing  in  the  Irish  wood, 

And  Raleigh  with  thee  on  the  upland  lay! 

Again  through  gloomy  forests  old  and  gray, 
O'er  many  a  waste  and  trackless  solitudej 
Whithersoe'er  thy  Muse's  knightly  mood 

May  lead  us  in  thy  tale,  we  seem  to  stray. 

O  master,  it  was  not  on  oaten  reeds 

Thou  madest  music  for  the  world's  delight, 

Nor  yet  on  Pan's  shrill  pipe  didst  thou  e'er  flute; 

To  sing  of  courtly  grace  and  lordly  deeds, 
Of  lovely  Una  and  the  Redcross  Knight, 
Behold !  thou  hadst  Apollo's  silver  lute. 


THE    MOHAWK 

Thou  windest  down  between  the  hills, 
Past  many  a  gleaming  lawn  and  lea, 

The  tribute  of  a  thousand  rills 

To  bear  toward  the  distant  sea. 

'Twixt  level  fields  of  wheat  and  corn, 
By  many  a  cool  and  quiet  wood, 

Past  founts  where  singing  streams  are  born, 
Thou  rollest  down  thy  silver  flood. 

Within  thy  wave  the  shadows  play; 

Along  thy  banks  the  blossoms  bloom; 
And  to  and  fro,  through  all  the  day, 

The  swallows  sweep  from  sun  to  gloom. 

Unchanged  thy  voice;  still  sweet  and  low 
Thou  murmurest  to  the  leaves  and  grass, 

And  happy  winds  that  o'er  thee  blow 
And  lightly  kiss  thee  as  they  pass. 

The  lordly  Hudson  waits  for  thee; 

With  throbbing  heart  and  smiling  face, 
He  greets  his  bride  right  royally, 

And  folds  her  in  his  wide  embrace 

And  thus  espoused,  ye  sweetly  flow 
Down  to  the  boundless  azure  sea, 

As  loving  souls  together  go 
Into  God's  vast  eternity. 


97 


RIZPAH 

Blown  through  the  gusty  spaces  of  the  night, 

The  pale  clouds  fleet  like  ghosts  along  the  sky; 
."A  fitful  wind  goes  moaning  feebly  by, 

And  the  faint  moon,  poised  o'er  the  craggy  height, 

Dies  in  its  own  uncertain,  misty  light. 

Within   the  hills  the  water-springs   are  dry; 
The  herbs  are  withered;  and  the  sand-wastes  lie 

Dim,  wide,  and  lonely  to  the  weary  sight. 

Behold!  her  awful  vigil  she  will  keep 

Through  the  wan  night  as  through  the  burning  day; 
Though  all  the  world  should  sleep,  she  will  not  sleep, 

But  watch,  wild-eyed  and  fierce,  to  scare  away, 
As  round  and  round,  with  hoarse,  low  cries  they  creep, 

From  dead  sons  the  hungry  beasts  of  prey. 


PAIN 


I  met  a  loathsome  beggar  on  the  way, 

Who  sued  for  alms.     His  unkempt,  grizzled  hair 

Fell  o'er  his  forehead  like  a  thatch,  his  eyes, 

Small,  red,  and  all  aflood  with  rheum,  were  bent 

With   leering   supplication   on   my   own. 

Betwixt  his  wasted  palms  he  held  a  hat, 

Battered  and  stained,  wherein  a  few  poor  coins 

Bespoke  the  pity  wherewith  passers-by 

Had  tossed  him  their  scant  dole.     About  his  feet 

Were  wisps  of  straw,  and  as  he  bowed  he  prayed, 

"An  alms,  kind  stranger,  for  God's  love,  an  alms." 

I  paused  and,  sick  at  heart,  regarded  all 

The  tattered  wanderer's  lorn  and  fallen  state, 

And  wondered  why  so  foul  a  blot  should  rest 

Upon  the  beauteous  day  to  mar  its  joy. 

For  the  birds  sang,  and  flowers  were  abloom, 

And  the  white  clouds  were  floating  high,  and  round 

The  happy  fields,  swung  by  invisible  hands, 

A  thousand  censers  yielded  rare  perfumes. 

Then  o'er  my  soul,  like  a  great  billow,  rolled 

Divine  compassion,  and  against  the  grim 

Black  night  of  that  vile  beggar's  woe  I  saw 

The  prosperous  noon-tide  of  my  own  full  life: 

Till  sudden  shame  seized  on  me,  and  a  pang 

Ne'er  felt  before  pierced  through  me  like  a  lance, 

And  the  bright  light  was  dashed  from  heaven,  and  o'er 

The  smiling  earth  a  darkness  fell.    Whereat 

When  I  was  fain  to  hide  me,  that  I  dared 

To  quaff  the  cup  of  bliss  while  other  lips 

Famished  for  but  one  drop,  lo!  as  I  looked, 

The  wretch  before  me  was  transformed,  his  brow 

Shone  with  celestial  splendor,  his  deep  eyes 

Beamed  with  unearthly  beauty,  and  his  form 


Was  clad  in  raiment  like  the  sun.     I  said, 
"Who  art  thou?"  and,  he  answered,  "I  am  Pain, 
And  come  to  teach  all  selfish  lives  that  love 
Opens  the  viewless  gateway  unto  peace." 
Then  lifting  from  the  dust  my  dazzled  sight, 
I  stood  alone,  and  in  that  moment  gazed 
On  a  new  heaven  clasping  a  new  earth. 


100 


MIGHTY  AT  THE  LAST 

A  little  cloud  upon  the  stainless  sky, 

A  fringe  of  mist  upon  the  mountain  pale — 

Lo!  bye  and  bye  the  tempest  roars  on  high, 

And  maddened  torrents  drown  the  peaceful  vale. 

A  little  blot  upon  life's  virgin  white, 

A  tiny  serpent  in  the  heart's  warm  nest — 

Lo!  bye  and  bye  down  rolls  shame's  fearful  night, 
And  venomed  fangs  tear  at  the  fatuous  breast. 


101 


AN  HOUR-GLASS. 

The  tawny  sands  slip  downward  in  the  glass 

Noiseless  and  smooth,  a  pulse  whose  even  flow 
No  boisterous  winds  can  vex  howe'er  they  blow, 

A  tide  across  whose  breast  no  shadows  pass. 

Lo!  yellow  bees  that  drone  in  summer  grass, 
A  mill  whose  mossy  wheel  has  ceased  to  go, 
A  hawk  above  a  woodland  sailing  slow, 

A  sunny  field  reaped  by  a  brown-armed  lass- 
All  these  like  visions  rise  upon  my  soul, 

Till,  wholly  meshed  in  Fancy's  sorceries, 

While  still  the  grains  sift  from  the  crystal  bowl, 
I  feel  against  my  brow  a  phantom  breeze, 

And  see  o'er  gleaming  sands  the  long  waves  roll, 
And  hear  the  washings  of  the  Orient  seas. 


102 


A  CRUSHED  ROSE 

When  beauty,  with  her  magic  wand, 

Touched  thy  young  petals  through  and  through, 
A  lovelier  robe  by  thee  was  donned 

Than  e'er  the  bright  Belphoebe  knew. 
The  bee  sipped  at  thy  ruby  mouth, 

And  swift,  sweet  blushes  did  o'erplay 
Thy   perfect   features   when   the   south 

Wind  kissed  thy  nightly  tears  away. 
But  low  thou  liest  now  in  dust, 

To  happier  roses  but  a  scorn, 
The  puppet  of  each  passing  gust, 

Made   fellow  of  by  baser  born. 
O  sweet  decay!     O  fitting  type 

Of  virtue  from  its  place  down  hurled — 
Of  grace  discrowned  by  a  too-ripe, 

Voluptuous  day  in  this  mad  world! 
Thou  wast  the  plaything  of  an  hour; 

Awhile  thou  wast  some  lover's  pride; 
Then  lightly,  for  another  flower, 

Thy  heart  was  crushed  and  thrown  aside. 


103 


IT  SHALL  BE  KNOWN 

Over  and  over  I  con  it,  and  over  and  over  again, 

But  somehow  I  cannot  learn  it — the  meaning  is  not 
plain. 

Yet  surely,  I  some  time  shall  know  how,  out  of  the 
darkened  past, 

And  out  of  the  shrouded  future,  light  shall  be  gathered 
at  last. 

Is  it  better  indeed  to  have  loved,  though  it  be  to  have 
loved  and  lost? 

Answer,  ye  who  have  been  caught,  and  harried  and 
wildly  tossed 

In  the  palms  of  a  fickle  chance,  till  the  years  are  well- 
nigh  done, 

And  the  grief  and  passion  are  spent,  and  the  half  of 
life  is  gone. 

O  riddle  too  hard  to  read!     O  arid  and  wasted  years! 

O  thoughts  that  deepen  and  deepen  beyond  the  touch 
of  tears! 

For  the  watching,  remembering  and  waiting,  for  ih< 
hungering  of  the  heart. 

For  the  soul's  ineffectual  crying,  and  for  the  bitter  smart 

Of  pain  returning  daily,  shall  there  not  come,  some- 
where, 

A  recompense,  a  guerdon,  an  answer  to  the  prayer 

Of  faith  that  strives  and  wrestles?  Ah  yes!  the  les- 
son old 

Shall  be  learned  at  last— the  riddle  shall  be  forever  told. 


104 


TOO  LATE 

I  saw  his  hand  all  marble  white 

Across  his  pulseless  breast, 
The  hand  that  once  so  busy  was, 

Forevermore   at   rest. 

I  saw  his  brow,  as  cold  as  snow, 

Above  the  lifeless  brain, 
Smoothed  of  the  lines  that  care  had  worn, 

And  young  and  fair  again. 

Strange — strange — and  from  me  far  removed; 

Familiar,  yet  so  strange, 
Each  lineament  that  I  had  known 

Touched  by  some  awful  change. 

Ah,  could  we  sweep  away  the  mask, 

And  thaw  death's  icy  chill, 
And  bring  the  old  days  back  again, 

Would  we  be  careless  still? 


105 


WHERE  DREAMS  COME  TRUE 

There  is  a  land  where  light  winds  blow 

From  sun-crowned  hills  of  long  ago — 

A  land  of  morning  fresh  and  sweet, 

Where  youth  returns  on  flying  feet; 

Where  memory  smiles  through  happy  tears, 

And  age  forgets  its  weight  of  years; 

Where  withered  roses  bloom  once  more, 

And  faded  eyes  beam  as  of  yore. 

Ah!  would  that  we  might  find  the  clue, 

And  win  the  realm  where  dreams  come  true; 

Ay,  find  the  joy  we  never  knew, 

Where  dreams  come  true,  where  dreams  come  true. 

There  still  love's  whispered  tale  is  told; 

Hope  spreads  o'er  earth  her  cloth-of-gold; 

Fond,  tremulous  vows  again  are  heard, 

The  answering,  shy,  half-spoken  word; 

While  to  the  tender,  brooding  skies 

Forget-me-nots  lift  dewy  eyes, 

And  round  the  glad  world,  all  day  long, 

Delight  thrills  on  the  wings  of  song. 

O  loved  one,  may  I  dwell  with  you 

In  that  dear  realm  where  dreams  come  true; 

Ay,  find  the  joy  we  never  knew 

Where  happy  dreams  at  last  come  true. 


106 


COME  SLOWLY,  PARADISE 
Reprinted  from  "The  Harvest  Home" 

O  dawn  upon  me  slowly,  Paradise! 

Come  not  too  suddenly, 
Lest  my  just-opened,  unaccustomed  eyes 

Smitten  with  blindness  be. 

To  those  who  from  Time's  penury  and  woe 

Rise  to  thy .  heights  afar, 
Down  which  the  floods  of  glory  fall  and  flow, 

Too  great  thy  splendors  are. 

So  grow  upon  me  slowly;  sweetly  break 

Across  death's  silent  deep, 
Till  to  thy  morning  brightness  I  shall  wake 

As  one  from  happy  sleep. 


107 


MOTHER 

O  she  was  fair  to  look  upon; 
Her  level  brows  angelic  shone, 
And  from  the  depths  of  her  sweet  eyes 
Glimmered  the  lore  of  Paradise. 

A  household  saint,  with  her  no  thought 
Of  whether  more  or  less  she  wrought, 
Content  in  love's  untiring  ways 
To  fill  with  needful  tasks  her  days. 

Nor  did  she  ask  for  sign  or  speech 
Of  all  her  busy  life  might  teach, 
Happy  that  love,  for  love's  own  sake, 
Its  alabaster  box  might  break. 

And  when  the  peaceful  evening  sun 
Announced  the  day  at  length  was  done, 
With  folded  hands  above  her  breast. 
She  meekly  turned  to  sleep  and  rest. 


108 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  BARBARA  HECK: 

Below  the  whispering  pines  she  lies, 
Safe  from  the  busy  world's  loud  roar; 

Above  her  bend  the  North's  pale  skies, 
The  broad  St.  Lawrence  sweeps  before. 

A  humble  woman,  pure  of  heart, 
She  knew  no  dream  of  world-wide  fame; 

Yet  in  men's  love  she  hath  her  part, 
And  thousands  bless  her  homely  name. 

She  sleeps  the  changeful  years  away; 

Her  couch  its  holy  quiet  keeps, 
And  many  a  pilgrim,  day  by  day, 

Turns  thither  from  the  world  and  weeps. 

O  plenteous  tears  of  grateful  love, 
Keep  green  and  fresh  her  lowly  bed ! 

O  minstrel  birds  that  brood  above. 
Sing  sweetly  o'er  the  peaceful  dead ! 

Amid  the  silent  sleepers  round 

She  sleeps,  nor  heeds  time's  wintry  gust; 
Tread  softly,  this  is  hallowed  ground, 

And  mouldering  here  lies  sacred  dust. 

Roll  nn,  O  world,  your  noisy  way! 

Go  by,  O  years,  with  wrong  and  wreck! 
But  till  the  dawn  of  God's  great  day, 

Shall  live  the  name  of  Barbara  Heck. 


109 


DIANA'S   BATHING-PLACE 

Copyright  by  Authors  Club  for  Liber  Scriptorum. 

Crossing  the  fields  from  market-town, 

I  spied  Diana's  bathing-place, 
Where  shy  nymphs  doffed  a  rustic  gown 

To  seek  the  water's  cool  embrace; 
I  saw  their  bosoms'  drifted  snow. 

Each  with  its  virgin  rosebud  crowned 
While  silvery  laughter,  sweet  and  low, 

Scarce  stirred  the  silence  round. 

Crossing  the  fields  from  market-town, 

Unknowing  what  rare  hap  was  mine, 
Through  shimmering  tresses,  flowing  down, 

I  saw  white  shoulders  glance  and  shine; 
The  wave  in  little  ripples  broke 

Round  slender  ankle  and  white  arm. 
While  mid  hushed  leaves  soft  breezes  woke. 

To  kiss  each  dazzling  charm. 

Crossing  the  fields  from  market-town 

Where  the  green  copse  a  bower  made, 
Mid  chequered  light  and  shadows  brown, 

They  stood  and  dried  them  unafraid; 
I  saw  the  smooth  wet  limbs  that  gleamed 

In  the  still  pool,  as  in  a  glass, 
While  some  reclined,  with  eyes  that  dreamed, 

Couched  on  the  velvet  grass. 

Fair   Phyllis  drew  her  garters  on 

And  tied  them  in  a  dainty  bow; 
Her  bodice  Chloe  ran  to  don. 

With  rosy  cheeks  and  lips  aglow; 
Then,  fearing  should  I  longer  wait, 

Some  dire  mischance  would  cloud  the  day, 
And  mindful  of  Actaeon's  fate, 

I  swiftly  stole  away. 

110 


WHAT  IS  SHE  LIKE? 

What  is  she  like? — soft  winds  at  evening  blown 
O'er  dew-wet  fields— like  tender  lights  that  lie 
At  shut  of  day  along  the  violet  sky — 

Like    April    buds,    when    blustering    March    has    flown, 

Peeping  from  out  their  sheathes — like  red  leaves  strown 
Down  woodland  paths  when  Autumn,  trailing  by, 
With  pensive  brows  down  bent  and  veiled  eye, 

Wanders  amid  her  rustling  stocks  alone. 

For  all  things  lovely,  all  things  sweet  and  sad, 

Look  forth  from  her  dark  eyes,  where  beauty  dwells 

As  in  a  temple,  and'pale  sorrow,  clad 

In  mystic  garments,  weaves  her  shadowy  spells. 

All  this  she  is  to  me,  and  I  am  glad, 

And  in  her  voice  hear  sounds  of  vesper  bells. 


Ill 


KATIE  LEIGH 

I  met,  one  summer  morning, 

When  dew  lay  on  the  grass, 
Sweet  Katie  of  the  Meadows, 

A  bonny,  winsome  lass; 
And  my  heart  rose  up  exultant, 

Yet  startled  and  afraid, 
To  meet  again  those  eyes  whose  glance 

A  spell  upon  it  laid. 

Lightly  she  tripped  to  meet  me 

Across  the  twinkling  grass, 
While  the  flowers  blushed  and  trembled 

And  brightened  to  see  her  pass; 
I  thought  for  a  brief,  dim  instant 

To  swiftly  haste  away, 
But  as  I  doubted,  she  called  my  name, 

And  I  could  not  choose  but  stay. 

A  bird  in  the  hedgerow  caroled 

To  its  mate  in  the  maple  tree, 
And  as  I  looked  into  Katie's  eyes, 

My  heart  throbbed  tremblingly; 
For  now  they  shone  with  merriment. 

And  now  grew  dark  and  shy, 
Till  all  their  azure  depths  were  changed 

Like  a  vexed  April  sky. 

I  said,  "What  is  it,  Katie?" 

With  voice  strange  and  dismayed; 
"My  pet  lamb,  John,  has  slipped  its  leash 

And  to  yon  wood  has  strayed. 

112 


I  can  hear  the  tinkling  of  its  bell 

But  dare  not  venture  there" — 
And  a  question  then  dawned  in  her  eyes 

Which  seemed  to  me  thrice  fair. 

"And  you  wish  me  to  find  it,  Katie?" 

"Oh,  John,  if  you  only  would!" 
And  she  nearer  moved  with  brown  hands  clasped 

In  eager  attitude. 
"Well,  wait  for  a  few  moments  here," 

I  said  with  an  awkward  bow, 
And  yet,  as  I  turned,  my  heart  rose  up 

Blither  and  bolder  now. 

Why  was  it?   A  new  light  in  her  eyes, 

Or  a  new  light  in  the  day? — 
Ah,  me!    I  had  long  loved  Katie, 

And  oft,  in  my  bashful  way, 
Had  lingered,  hearing  her  low  sweet  voice, 

For  hours  at  the  garden  gate, 
Longing  to  say  what  I  never  could  say, 

Though  my  heart  cried,  "Haste,  ere  too  late!" 

I  think  that  Katie  knew  my  mind, 

And  knew  the  thing  I  would  say, 
For  when  I  would  stammer  and  try  to  speak, 

She  would  smile  and  look  away; 
Then,  alas  for  my  sudden  courage, 

And  the  hope  too  brief  and  bright! 
The  stars  grew  dark  and  the  blind  world  reeled — 

I  could  only  say,  "Good  night!" 

Thus  ever  I  put  my  doom  aside, 

Till  two  long  years  had  fled, 
And  still  within  my  heart  I  bore 

Its  secret  yet  unsaid; 


113 


But  when  we  met,  that  dewy  morn, 

Under  the  sunny  skies, 
My  heart  grew  bright  with  a  nameless  light 

That  shone  from  her  sweet  blue  eyes. 

I  vowed  as  I  led  the  lost  lamb  back 

Through  the  tangled  wood  and  vine, 
That  now  I  would  speak  my  love  to  her, 

And  ask  her  to  be  mine: 
She  stood  by  the  hedge,  nigh  the  maple  tree, 

In  her  beauty  and  her  grace, 
With  the  sunlight  still  in  her  azure  eyes, 

And  the  bloom  of  the  morn  on  her  face. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  John !"  she  said,  and  smiled 

A  smile  like  the  summer  bright, 
And  holding  her  hand  for  the  hempen  leash, 

In  mine  I  clasped  it  tight; 
"Katie,"  I  said,  "I  want  to  speak 

What  you  have  known  so  long — 
I  love  you,  Katie;  tell  me,  sweet, 

Do  I  do  my  heart  a  wrong? 

"For  two  long  years  I've  borne  my  love, 

Nor  ever  dared  to  speak — " 
And  looking  down,  I  saw  a  flush 

Had  crept  o'er  either  cheek; 
"Do  you  love  me,  Katie?    Speak,"  I  said, 

"May  I  call  this  dear  hand  mine?" 
With  a  deeper  flush  she  hid  her  face, 

And  whispered,  "I  am  thine." 

So  the  sun  never  shone  so  goldenly  down, 

And  the  sky  was  never  so  blue, 
And  the  flowers  were  never  so  bright  as  we  walked 

Back  over  the  morning  dew; 


114 


The  birds  never  sang  so  sweetly  before, 

Such  a  morn  I  had  never  seen; 
And  the  sumac  berries  were  never  so  red, 

And  the  grass  was  never  so  green. 

So  the  blue-bells  merrily  rang  that  day, 

And  the  sumac  fiercelier  burned. 
And  the  red  rose  changed  to  a  deeper  red, 

And  the  white  rose  whiter  turned; 
The  water  lily  hung  its  head 

And  blushed  at  the  kiss  of  morn. 
While  Psyche  laughed,  and  the  winged  Boy 

Shrilled  the  blithe  marriage  horn. 

When  the  leaves  on  the  tree  were  tipped  with  flame, 

And  corn  hung  full  on  the  ear, 
When  the  red-cheeked  apples  fell  from  the  boughs, 

And  the  harvest  was  ripe  of  the  year; 
When  aftermath  was  nigh  its  growth 

In  fields  that  summer  had  shorn, 
Katie  redeemed  the  promise  she  made 

In  the  meadow  that  golden  morn. 

The  years  have  gone  with  a  noiseless  tread, 

And  summer  has  come  again, 
The  birds  are  fluting  in  field  and  wood, 

And  daisies  are  white  in  the  lane; 
The  leaves  are  thick  on  the  maple  tree* 

The  corn's  silk  tassels  wave, 
And  mellow  flecks  of  sunshine  play 

In  the  grass  on  Katie's  grave. 

Another  Katie  roams  those  fields. 

And  she  is  fair  to  see, 
With  her  mother's  eyes  and  her  mother's  hair — 

But  not  more  fair  than  she; 


115 


And  the  same  old  tender  dreams  are  hers, 

Beneath  the  summer  sky, 
While  her  gentle  heart  its  secret  keeps, 

For  love  can  never  die. 


116 


OUT  OF  THE  SHADOWS. 

A  SONG 
WITH  VARIATIONS. 


DEDICATION. 

O  THOU  who,  in  the  sacred  name  of  wife, 

Shalt  garner  good  from  all  the  years  to  be — 
Twin  of  my  heart,  O  thou  who  unto  me 
Shalt  yield  the  perfect  flower  of  thy  life — 
Take  these  poor  songs,  faint  echoes  of  past  years, 
Sung  in  the  ample  light  of  this  rich  morn, 
Where  Hope  keeps  watch  beside  her  latest  born, 
And  Memory  sits  smiling  through  her  tears 


118 


OUT  OF  THE  SHADOWS. 
PART  I.— EVENING. 


AMO. 

I  do  not  know  that  I  could  love  her  more; 

I  know  that  I  could  never  love  her  less, 

For  none  have  ever  felt  her  loveliness 
Strike  on  their  lives  but  that  they  did  adore. 
Where'er  she  goes  there  goes  a  light  before, 

And  music  in  the  motion  of  her  dress; 

And  in  her  voice  is  such  rich  tenderness, 
That  eyes  unused  to  weeping  must  run  o'er 
With  blissful  tears  to  hear  her  when  she  sings. 

Nor  do  I  marvel  that  her  harp  should  sigh 
Whene'er  her  white  hands  sweep  its  quivering 
strings, 

For  that  it  cannot. weep,  but  only  cry 
Melodiously  the  rapture  that  she  brings. 

To  free  her  lot  from  sorrow,  I  would  die! 

II. 
LOVE'S  VAGARIES. 

I  often  wonder,  should  I  touch  her  hand, 

If  it  would  be  like  others  I  might  clasp; 

Or  if  it  would  not  fall  from  out  my  grasp, 
Unfelt  and  gradually  as  trickling  sand: 
Or  if  it  would  not  burn  me  like  a  brand, 

Or  sharply  sting  as  if  I  held  an  asp; 

Or  if  I  should  not  lose  my  breath  and  gasp, 
That  in  her  presence  I  should  dare  to  stand. 


119 


But  O,  she  seemeth  me  so  far  beyond, 
That  I  dare  never  breathe  her  dear  name,  save 

In  holy  sleep  and  dreams  divinely  fond, 
Which  to  recall  awake  seems  madly  brave. 

Alas!  I  feel  indeed  that  I  am  bond 
To  her  forever — though  a  willing  slave. 


III. 
A  PORTRAITURE. 

She's  very  fair,  and  in  her  eyes 

Her  gentle  spirit  lies  asleep, 
Still  as  a  star  in  evening  skies 

Mirrored  by  an  untroubled  deep. 

The  ruddy  ripeness  of  her  lip, 
The  rounded  beauty  of  her  cheek, 

Mark  her,  of  all,  Eve's  fairest  slip, 
The  queenliest,  yet  most  proudly  meek. 

I  know  she  hath  the  stateliest  form 
That  e'er  was  clothed  with  maiden  grace, 

And  ne'er  was  neck  more  white  and  warm, 
And  ne'er  was  a  more  perfect  face. 

To  type  her  brow,  of  saintliest  white, 
There's  not  a  flower  howso  rare, 

And  all  the  glories  of  the  night 
Meet  in  the  rich  hue  of  her  hair. 

She  wills  to  be  not  wholly  known; 

For,  ever  drawn  into  her  rest. 
With  livelier  tint  and  lovelier  tone. 

One  knows  not  when  she  pleaseth  best. 

120 


Her  ways  are  winning,  yet  I  think 
She  hath  than  all  a  nobler  art— 

Those  virtuesa  sweeter  far,  that  link 
The  angel  to  the  woman's  heart. 

And  thus  I  find  her  truer  worth 

In  that  which  good  alone  hath  given; 

A  tender  being  of  the  earth, 

But  breathing  the  fine  air  of  heaven. 


IV. 
REMBRANDTESQUE. 


A  purple  passion-flower  at  her  feet, 
And  on  her  bosom  a  white  lily  lies; 
And  in  the  shadowy  depth  of  her  soft  eyes 

Her  placid  spirit  lieth  fair  and  sweet. 

The  shifting  hues  that  o'er  her  features  fleet 
Are  radiant  of  love's  impassioned  dyes, 
And  where  the  curves  of  shining  shoulders  rise 

Her  glossy  locks  in  tangled  ringlets  meet. 

Her  faultless  lips  are  parted  in  a  song, 
The  words  whereof  are  hard  to  understand 

As  a  dead  language  or  an  unknown  tongue, 
And  yet  I  know  it  must  be  something  grand. 

But  if  I  say  not  this,  I  do  her  wrong: 
She  is  the  loveliest  lady  in  the  land. 


121 


V. 
ON  GUARD. 

She's  sweet  and  fair,  but  is  not  true, 
And  that,  you  know,  is  cause  to  rue, 
For  who  would  woo  a  fickle  maid — 

Would   you? 

She  has  bright  eyes,  but  they  deceive; 
That  too,  you  know,  is  cause  to  grieve, 
For  so  in  her  none  ever  can 

Believe. 

Her  lips  are  very  ripe  and  red, 
And  lips  are  sweet,  you  know,  'tis  said; 
But  I  would  rather  have  her  heart 
Instead. 

Or  rather  I  would  have  them  both, 
For  with  the  lips,  you  know,  the  troth 
Is  plighted,  when  the  true  heart  is 
Not  loth. 

Fie!  I'll  not  fall  into  the  net; 
She's  nothing  but  a  slight  coquette, 
And  such,  you  know,  'twere  better  to 
Forget 

VI. 
MY  LOVE  IS  LIKE  THE  VASTNESS  OF  THE  SEA 

My  love  is  like  the  vastness  of  the  sea, 
As  deep  as  life,  as  high  as  heaven  is  high, 
And  pure  as  an  unclouded  summer  sky, 

And  as  enduring  as  eternity. 

122 


My  love  is  that  which  was,  and  is  to  be, 

Which  knows  no  change,  and  which  can  never  die; 

Which  all  the  wealth  of  Ophir  could  not  buy, 
Yet  free  to  one  as  light  and  air  are  free. 
O  Love,  thou  puttest  to  shame  the  nightingale; 

Thy  lips,  like  bees,  are  fraught  with  hydromel; 
Than  lilies  be,  thy  bosom  is  more  pale; 

Thy  words  are  sweeter  than  a  silver  bell: 
Yet  time  from  thee  thy  beauties  shall  estrange, 
But  this  my  love  can  never  suffer  change. 


VII. 


FLOWER  AND  THORN 

Like  some  rare  flower  of  perfume  divine 
That  bloomed  beneath  a  garden  hedge  unseen, 
Till  favored  hands  by  chance  thrust  back  the  screen, 

And  happy  eyes  saw  it  proud  beauty  shine; 

So  did  I  find  thee,  O  thou  Love  of  mine ! 

The  fairest  maid  that  ever  walked  the  green 
Glad  earth,  and  regal  as  a  Roman  queen, 

And  lovely  as  a  rose  incarnadine. 

O  Love,  I  found  thee,  and  my  heart  was  glad 
Of   summer- tide;   but   I   forgot — ah,  vain! — 

That  brightest  blooms  with  sharpest  thorns  are  clad. 
I  cried,  "O  beautiful!"  and  sought  to  gain 

Thee  from  thy  solitude,  when  o'er  my  mad, 
Wild  ardor  I   felt  love's  most  cruel  pain! 


123 


VIII. 
THE  STATUE 

I  know  not  if  it  be  the  odorous  air. 
Or  yonder  royal  lily's  stately  height, 
Or  if  it  be  the  tinkling  fountain  bright 

In  the  midsummer  moonlight  sleeping  there; 

I  know  not,  Love,  if  these  have  any  share 
In  turning  all  my  thoughts  to  thee  to-night. 

There  in  the  dusk  stands  pale  Mnemosyne, 
One  hand  upon  her  brow,  one  on  her  heart 
Pressed  hard,  as  though  she  felt  the  cruel  smart 
Of  some  old  wound  afresh  in  memory: 
Ah!  now  I  know,  Love,  why  I  thought  of  thee; 
Wan  Memory  feeleth  how  unkind  thou  art. 


IX. 

SIGN  AND   SYMBOL 

Love,  love,  love! 

The  mystic  voice  of  earth; 
The  song  whose  sudden  changes  move 

From  sorrow  unto  mirth. 
Mark  the  symbol,  mark  the  sign, 
Beauty  vain  and  youth  divine: 
A  winged  dart, 
A  bleeding  heart — 

Mortal  hurts  may  never  heal. 
Vows  forgotten,  vows  unspoken, 
Broken  bowl  and  pitcher  broken, 

Loosened  cord  and  shattered  wheel! 

124 


Love,  love,  O  love! 

The  rapture  and  the  wonder! 
Evening  star  and  morning  bird, 
Distant  echo,  dying  word, 
Stifled  voice  and  song  unheard, 

And    lute-string    snapt    asunder ! 


X. 

A  FANTASY 

A  passion-flower,  a  lily,  and  a  dove; 

A  weary  waste,  heart  hunger,  and  a  thorn; 
There,  in  the  sunlight,  far  away,  my  Love 

Beside  the  sea  sits  singing  to  the  morn; 
Here,  in  a  lonely  shadow-land,  I  move — 

A  silent  shadow — hopeless  and  forlorn. 

O  voice  of  song!     O  song  amid  the  flowers! 

O  wanderer  fainting  'mid  the  thorns  and  sand ! 
Through  all  the  long,  glad  light  of  summer  hours, 

O  Love,  thou  sittest  singing  on  the  strand; 
See,  in  the  darkness  here  thy  lover  cowers; 

O  lead  him,  Love,  from  out  this  lonely  land ! 


XI. 
IN  THE  SHADOWS 

Come,  Love,  and  sit  beside  me  where  alone 

I  sit  within  the  silent  shadows  here; 

Come,  Love,  come  and  drop  with  me  tear  for  tear, 
And  mingle  with  my  moaning  thy  sad  moan. 

125 


Come,  Love,  and  take  my  hand  within  thine  own, 
And  let  me  touch  thy  face  and  feel  thee  near. 
And  breathe  thou  on  my  brow,  and  in  mine  ear 

Let  fall  the  tender  music  of  thy  tone. 

O  Love,  alone  within  this  doleful  gloom 
Have  I  sat  sorrowing  since  life's  early  morn 

Lost  in  untimely  blight  its  splendid  bloom, 
And  all  my  soul  with  sullen  grief  is  torn. 

Come  to  me,  Love,  and  lead  me  from  my  doom, 
I  am  here  in  the  darkness  so  forlorn ! 


XII. 
DOOM 

Like  a  wan  maiden  sitting  in  the  night 

Beside  her  dying  lover,  while  no  sound 

Breaks  the  oppressive  silence  brooding  round, 
Save  as  she  yearns  for  morning's  anxious  light, 
Her  heart  leaps  up  and  listens  with  affright 

To  midnight  footsteps  falling  on  the  ground: 

So  sits  my  soul  in  darkness  as  profound, 
And  hearkening  expectant,  marks  the  flight 
Of  Time  who,  with  vast  pinions  wide  unfurled, 

And  broken  scythe  and  shattered  glass,  sweeps  down 
Across  the  utmost  boundaries  of  the  world, 

Between  his  lips  that  dread  trump  yet  unblown. 
From  out  the  sky  each  starry  light  is  hurled, 

And  chaos  is  of  darkness  the  dread  crown ! 


INTERLUDE 

NOT  every  king  may  wear  a  crown, 

Nor  kingly  he  alone 
Whose  heart  beneath  a  purple  gown 

Throbs  on  the  royal  throne; 
The  kingliest  spirits  that  have  been 

The  world  hath  never  known. 

Not  they  who  vaunt  of  lineage  long, 

And  of  their  gentle  blood, 
Are  peers  to  noble  hearts  and  strong, 

Or  to  the  truly  good; 
Not  all  that  wear  a  diadem 

In  courtly  halls  have  stood. 

And  oft  is  stay'd  deserved  meed, 

And  many  the  tales  untold 
Of  high  resolve  and  lordly  deed 

Would  shame  the  knights  of  old; 
That  only  angels  chronicle 

In  characters  of  gold. 

O  wide  is  God's  nobility, 

Nor  that  which  blood  doth  bind; 
The  kinship  of  humanity — 

The  realm  of  heart  and  mind: 
From  lowliest  walks  of  life  have  sprung 

The  flowers  of  humankind. 

Yet  there  is  hope,  though  here  unknown 
Through  all  the  world  they  move; 

For  them  awaits  a  conqueror's  throne; 
They  shall  be  crowned  above: 

But,  ah,  how  sad  their  lot  who  live 
Uncrowned  of  woman's  love! 

127 


PART  II.— MIDNIGHT. 


COMPLAINT 

Another!    O  Christ,  can  it  be! 

Will  another  love  better  than   I 
Whose  love  is  as  deep  as  the  fathomless  sea, 

And  as  steadfast  as  stars  in  the  sky? 
Will  she  graciously  yield  to  another's  plea? 

Be  coldly  deaf  to  my  joyless  cry? 
Folded  forever  away  from  me — 

Ah,  better  it  were  to  die! 

What  could  I  give  her  more? 

Nor  time  nor  eternity 
Can  take  or  add  to  the  boundless  store 

Of  a  love  that  never  can  die; 
And  yet  she  doth  spurn  it  o'er  and  o'er, 

With  cruel  scorn  in  her  beautiful  eye: 
Like  a  shattered  wreck  on  a  lonely  shore 

My  helpless  soul  doth  lie. 

Crowned  with  a  thorny  crown, 

Scourged  and  crucified! 
Hope's  frail  blossoms,  in  beauty  blown, 

Crushed  by  the  foot  of  pride! 
Ah,  better  indeed    ere  tears  should  drown 

The  light  wherein  life  is  glorified, 
Under  the  sod  to  lay  us  down 

And  slumber  side  by  side! 


II. 

MARAH. 

Yea,  Love!  mayhap  'twere  better 

If  thou  and  I  should  hide 
Our  hearts  away  beneath  the  grass 

Upon  the  green  hill-side; 
And  there  with  palms  close  folded 

Above  the  peaceful  breast, 
Unheeded   and   unheeding, 

Sleep  on  and  take  our  rest. 

I  know  the  Spring  would  blossom, 

And  birds  still  build  and  sing; 
That  men  would  woo,  and  maidens  wed, 

And  folly  prune  love's  wing; 
But  thou  and  I  should  slumber, 

Though  stars  forever  set, 
Forgetting  to  remember, 

Remembering  to  forget. 


III. 

SYMPATHY. 

I  stood  at  sunset  on  a  gentle  hill, 
And  saw  the  twilight  shadows  slowly  fall 
And   darken  o'er  the  landscape  spread  below 
More  fair  than  any  picture,  while  as  yet 
Against  my  forehead  gleamed  the  massy  gold 
Of  untrod  mines  within  the  western  clouds. 
Deft  unseen  hands  had  broidered  every  hill. 
Below  was  darkness;  all  above  was  light. 
The  sky,  a  miracle  of  nameless  hues, 


129 


I  saw  as  one  in  an  apocalypse. 

Then  like  a  sudden  glory  shot  through  gloom, 

Upon  my  half-unconscious  spirit  burst 

The  boundless  pity  of  the  Universe. 

IV. 
NATURE'S  MINISTRY. 

Sweet  nature  hath  a  being  like  our  own, 

She  hath  her  joys,  she  hath  her  secret  pain; 

She  hath  her  memories,  like  the  sad  refrain 
That  haunts  the  heart  when  summer  birds  are  flown. 
We  cannot  have  our  sorrows  all  alone, 

But  nature  shares  them;  when  we  weep,  the  rain, 

Like  tears,  shines  on  the  hill-side  and  the  plain, 
And  when  we  laugh  she  echoes  back  our  tone. 
O  myriad  hearted  nature!  thine  shall  be 

The  reverence  and  the  tender  sacrifice 
Of  hearts  that  keep  their  first  simplicity, 

Such  as  we  read  in  gentle  maidens'  eyes. 
Though  sight  were  blind,  yet  should  our  spirits  see 

In  thee  the  semblance  of  God's  Paradise. 


IF  IT  WERE. 

Love,  that  thou  lov'st  me  not,  too  well  I  know; 
Yet  shouldst  thou  look  to-night  on  my  dead  face 
For  the  last  time  on  earth,  and  there  shouldst  trace 

The  silent  meaning  of  a  heavy  woe, 

Wouldst  thou  not  feel  a  pang  that  it  were  so? 
Would  not  regret  within  thy  heart  find  place 
That  thou  didst  stay  the  guerdon  and  the  grace 

Thy  lover  so  besought  thee  to  bestow? 


130 


Wouldst  thou  not  feel  a  want  unknown  before? 

A  something  gone  familiar  grown  so  long? 
A  vanished  light — a  ship  gone  from  the  shore — 

A  presence  past  from  out  the  world's  great  throng? 
O  Love,  wouldst  thou  not  miss  the  voice  of  yore? 

The  song-bird  flown,  wouldst  thou  not  miss  the  song? 


VI. 

FORESHADOWINGS. 

Lo!  in  the  valley,  Love,  the  galingale 

Bends  to  the  blast  beside  the  river-shore, 
And  Autumn  pipes  forever  more  and  more, 

While  Summer's  slender  voices  faint  and  fail. 

Lo!  now  the  liveried  leaf  grows  sere  and  pale- 
A  phantom  of  the  glory  gone  before — 
And  in  the  woodland  walks  we  knew  of  yore, 

Long  since  the  songster  ceased  his  tuneful  tale. 

Love,  let  us  love;  life's  Summer  waneth  soon; 

Brief  is  the  splendor  of  its  fervent  day; 
For  every  blood-red  rose  of  balmy  June 

Hath  burst  a  tender  bud  of  early  May. 
I  unto  thee  would  consecrate  a  boon; 

O  shall  we  love,  or  shall  we  still  delay? 


VII. 

GONE. 

Gone — and  the  sunlight  gone,  and  gone  the  stars, 
And  gone  earth's  beauty  with  her  in  the  west, 
There  yonder  past  the  purple  mountain's  crest, 

And  where  the  orange  evening's  lingering  bars 

131 


Grow  pale  before  the  flaming  front  of  Mars. 

Gone— and  gone  with  her  all  that  seemeth  best. 

Gone — and  my  heart  is  dead  within  my  breast; 
Nay,  cleft  with  doubts  like  fiery  scimitars. 
Gone — an(j  the  music  gone  from  earth  and  sky. 

Gone — and  the  heavens  glow  like  molten  brass. 
Gone — and  the  restless  winds  are  hot  and  dry, 

And  parched  and  thirsty  is  the  land.    Alas! 
It  were  a  sweet  relief  if  I  could  die, 

And  lie  at  rest  beneath  the  blackened  grass. 

VIII. 
SUPPLICATION. 

O  God,  and  dost  thou  mock  us  when  we  cry? 

And  wilt  thou  look  upon  our  sharp  distress, 

Neglectful  of  our  utter  helplessness, 
Nor  heed  nor  help  us  though  we  were  to  die? 
O  takest  thou  no  thought  for  those  who  lie 

Stripped  and  half-dead  with  wounds  and  weariness 

Among  life's  thorns,  and  wilt  thou  pitiless 
Look  on  our  hurts  and  pass  us  coldly  by? 
O  Thou  who  in  thy  Son  didst  feel  the  blow 

Of  palm  and  spiteful  scourge,  the  speechless  pain 
Of  loveless  solitude — Thou  who  didst  know 

The  unutterable  pangs  of  being  slain 
Of  love  for  love — O  end  my  bitter  woe! 

Yea,  let  me  die,  if  so  to  die  be  gain ! 

IX. 
UNREQUITED. 

Not  to  be  loved  by  one  on  whom  the  soul 
Dotes  madly,  not  to  feel  the  secret  bliss, 
The  solemn,  sweet,  long,  lingering  lover's  kiss, 

And  that  fine  ecstasy  beyond  control, 

132 


Is  empty  darkness  and  eternal  dole. 
To  fondly  press  a  warm  white  hand  and  miss 
An  answering  pressure,  in  that  soft  abyss 

Of  eyes  to  mark  no  lovelight,  in  the  troll 

Of  that  rich  speech  to  hear  no  tender  word 
To  voice  dear  love,  no  spoken  syllable 
Responsive  to  the  passionate  heart  to  tell 

Its  wild  and  yearning  language  hath  been  heard; 

That  loudly  hath  been  smitten  love's  deep  chord — 
Is  utter  madness  worse  than  death  and  hell! 


A  FEAR. 

A  withering  doubt  hath  seized  upon  my  soul, 
For  thou  mayst  meet  another,  and  forget 
My  lonely  life — yea,  think  of  me  no  more, 
And  walk  the  world  with  one  will  love  thee  less. 

O  dark  with  dolor  is  the  morning  sky, 
And  sad  the  pomp  of  Summer  in  its  prime, 
And  chill  the  winds  that  o'er  the  wild  white  waste 
Breathe  desolation  round  the  wintry  world! 

Beyond  creation's  utmost  boundaries; 
Beyond  the  farthest  star  that  whirls  in  space; 
Beyond  that  sea  of  blue  whose  billows  break 
Upon  a  strand  of  worlds — were  rest  indeed! 

XI. 
DESOLATION. 

I  know,  I  know  I  may  not  go 
Through  wind  and  winter  weather, 

To  seek  a  place  where  roses  blow, 
And  lilies  bloom  together. 


133 


I  should  not  find  them,  and  my  gain 

Would  be  a  lost  endeavor, 
And  empty  hands  and  bitter  pain, 

Forever  and  forever. 

I  cannot  weep,  though  I  would  reap 
The  joyful  harvest  sown  in  tears; 

I  cannot  put  my  heart  to  sleep 
Against  the  coming  years. 

If  love  be  taken  from  my  heart, 
Wouldst  seek  for  bud  or  beauty  there? 

From  love  life  cannot  thrive  apart 
And  bloom  divinely  fair. 


XII. 
A  WINTER  HOPE. 

O  Winter,  thou  art  warm  at  heart; 

Thine  every  pulse  doth  throb  and  glow, 
And  thou  dost  feel  life's  joy  and  smart, 

Beneath  the  blinding  snow. 

Thine  is  the  scent  of  bursting  bud 

Of  April  shower  and  violet; 
Thou  feelest  Spring  in  all  thy  blood 

Yearn  up  like  sweet  regret. 

Afar  thou  hear'st  the  song  of  birds, 
And  seest  the  bloom  on  Summer's  cheek; 

Thou  catch'st  the  lowing  of  the  herds, 
The  laughter  of  the  creek. 

134 


Bland  breezes  up  the  southern  slope 
Of  June  come  burdened  with  the  breath 

Of  roses  fresh  and  fair  as  hope 
Triumphant  over  death. 


O  sweet  and  rare  thy  visions 

The  flashing  scythe,  the  new-mown  hay. 
The  reaper's  dance  beneath  the  star, 

The  splendor  of  the  day; 

The  shining  grass,  the  peaceful  stream, 
The  purple  beauty  of  the  hill — 

No  frost  can  blight  thy  blessed  dream, 
Thy  heart  no  wind  can  chill. 

And  I — ah  me !    I  too  above 

The  winter  of  my  sharp  distress, 

May  catch  the  vision  of  summer  love, 

And  outstretched  hands  that  bless. 

XIII. 
BY  THE  SEA. 

O  maiden  watching  by  the  wide,  strange  sea, 

Hast  thou  a  lover  sailing  o'er  the  main? 

And  dost  thou  feel  the  sweetly-bitter  pain 
Of  a  deferred  but  glad  expectancy? 
O  hast  thou  watched  the  sun  climb  joyfully 

Up  the  red  east,  then  slowly  drop  again 

Down  the  red  west  and  into  darkness  wane, 
And  still  thy  lover  hath  not  come  to  thee? 
O  maiden,  let  me  take  thy  hand  in  mine,     , 

And  thou  and  I  will  sit  together  here, 
And,  gazing  out  across  the  bitter  brine, 

We'll  mingle  sob  with  sob  and  tear  with  tear; 
For  both  are  watchers  by  the  dim  deep  sea 

Of  human  life  and  love  and  destiny. 

135 


XIV. 
IN  SPRING. 

O  Love,  the  bliss  of  Spring  is  with  us  now; 

The  scent  of  bursting  buds  is  in  the  air; 

The  panting  bosom  of  the  earth  is  bare, 
She  hath  a  crown  of  flowers  on  her  brow. 
List!  music  drops  like  rain  from  every  bough, 

And  sounds  of  merry-making  everywhere 

Salute  mine  ears,  and  all  the  world  is  fair 
With  blush  and  bloom,  but  thou  art  fairer,  thou. 
O  Love,  come  down  from  yonder  sunless  height; 

Come  down,  O  Love,  for  here  are  songs  of  mirth, 
And  love  is  here,  and  here  are  life  and  light, 

But  where  thou  sittest  only  Pride  hath  birth. 
O  Love,  descend  and  gladden  on  my  sight, 

And  dazzle  with  thy  beauty  all  the  earth! 


XV. 

FORGET-ME-NOT. 

Blue  little  flower  from  the  sunny  dell, 
Where  yesterday  I  plucked  thee  all  alone, 

Go  to  her,  tell  her  that  I  love  her  well, 
And  all  life's  still  deep  music  is  mine  own. 

Go  to  her,  take  message  that  I  give; 

It  were  far  better  that  her  soft  blue  eyes 
Should  shine  one  moment  on  thee,  than  to  live 

So  brief  a  life  beneath  uncertain  skies. 

Go,  in  thine  eloquence  of  beauty  blest; 

Go,  and  if  haply  it  sould  fall  thy  lot 
To  lie  one  blissful  instant  on  her  breast, 

In  thy  sweet  language  say,  Forget  me  not. 


136 


XVI. 
THE  MINIATURE. 

Two  starry  eyes,  from  out  a  floating  dusk 
Of  cloud-like  drapery,  with  a  shadowy  light 
Of  royal  meekness  in  their  depths,  to-night 

Gleam  on  mine  own  and  fragrance  of  rose-musk 

Steals  round  me.     Softly  each  red  lip  doth  busk 
The  other  to  a  tender  pout,  and  might 
That  veil  be  lifted  from  her  shoulders  white 

By  other  hands,  they  were  too  harsh  and  brusk. 

0  little  face  shut  in  these  ivory  walls! 

Like  evening's  single  star  to  shipwrecked  eyes 
That  keep  their  weary  watch  when  twilight  falls, 

Or  whitely  distant  sails  that  slowly  rise 
With  hope  and  rescue  in  their  signal  calls — 

So  came  ye  to  me,  crowned  with  glad  surprise! 

XVII. 
LOVE'S  CONSOLATION. 

1  stood  to-day  beside  her  mother's  tomb — 

Her  mother,  who  died  when  my  love  was  young; 

And  thought,  when  all  is  said  and  all  is  sung, 
Is  this  the  end  of  life's  bliss  and  bloom? 
O  this  the  end — decay,  and  dust  and  gloom? 

The  heart  forever  still,  and  still  the  tongue, 

Gone  triumph  and  despair,  the  last  knell  rung, 
Deep  rest  and  sleep,  deep  rest,  nor  doubt  nor  doom? 
O  what  thy  largess,  life,  if  this  be  all! 

The  guerdon  what  of  every  earthly  ill? 
Ah !  Hope  were  blind,  and  vainly  would  she  call, 

And  Faith  were  impotent  to  do  her  will, 
If  this  the  end:  but  sweeter  lot  must  fall; 

Love  whispereth,  "Beyond  is  something  still!" 


137 


XVIII. 
DEATH'S  MYSTERY. 

O  death,  thou  mystery  of  folded  hands, 

And  pulseless  heart,  and  unresponsive  lips, 

What  secret  dost  thou  hide  in  the  eclipse 
Of  thy  dread  presence?     O,  from     out  all  lands, 
Beneath  all   skies,   from  ocean's  wreck-strewn   strands, 

Where  bones  lie  bleaching  by  the  shattered  ships; 

From  out  the  engulfing  wave  that  softly  slips 
With  treacherous  kisses  up  the  yellow  sands; 
From  world-old  battle-fields,  whereon  have  bled 

And  died  earth's  heroes;  from  the  quiet  green 
Of  country  church-yards;  from  the  narrow  bed 

Of  many  a  long-forgotten  king  and  queen — 
There  cometh  no  whisper  from  the  countless  dead 

To  tell  what  they  have  felt,  or  heard,  or  seen. 

XIX. 

I  KNOW  THEE,  DEATH. 

I  know  thee,  death,  thou'rt  he  who  once  did  lay 
Some  potent  spell  on  a  dear  friend  of  mine, 
And  then  the  light  of  love  surceased  to  shine 

In  the  fixed  eyes,  and  slowly  died  away 

From  the  pale  lips  the  words  that  love  would  say, 
Nor  kiss  nor  call  could  win  a  single  sign 
Of  recognition.     Yea,  I  know  thee,  thine, 

O  death,  is  the  all-mighty  power  to  slay. 

What  terrible  enchantment  dost  thou  weave, 
Thou  fleshless  sorcerer,  that  they  who  fall 

Under  thy  subtle  influence  cannot  cleave 
The  invisible  bonds  that  bind  them?— Nay,  not  all 

The  strenuous  cries  of  those  who  sorely  grieve, 
Can  pierce  the  silence  of  thine  earthy  pall. 

138 


XX. 

DEATH  AND  NIGHT. 

The  bearded  grass  waves  in  the  summer  breeze; 

The  sunlight  sleeps  along  the  distant  hills; 

Faint  is  the  music  of  the  murmuring  rills, 
And  faint  the  drowsy  piping  of  the  bees. 
The  languid  leaves  scarce  stir  upon  the  trees, 

And  scarce  is  heard  the  clangor  of  the  mills 

In  the  far  distance,  and  the  high,  sharp  trills 
Of  the  cicada  die  upon  the  leas. 
O  death — what  art  thou?    Hast  thou  peace  like  this? 

Or,  underneath  the  daisies,  out  of  sight, 
Hast  thou  in  keep  some  higher,  calmer  bliss? 

Ah  me!  'tis  pleasant  to  behold  the  light, 
And  missing  this,  O  death,  would  we  not  miss 

That  weariness  which  makes  us  love  the  night? 

XXI. 
BRING  THEM  NOT  BACK. 

Yet,  O  my  friend — pale  conjurer,  I  call 

Thee  friend — bring,  bring  the  dead  not  back  again, 

Since  for  the  tears,  the  darkness  and  the  pain 
Of  unrequited  friendship — for  the  gall 
That  hatred  mingles  with  fond  love — for  all. 

Life's  endless  turmoil,  bitterness  and  bane, 

Thou  hast  given  dreamless  rest.  Still  let  the  rain, 
And  sunshine,  and  the  dews  from  heaven  fall 
Upon  the  graves  of  those  whose  peaceful  eyes 

Thy  breath  hath  sealed  forever.     Let  the  song 
Of  summer  birds  be  theirs,  and  in  the  skies 

Let  the  pale  stars  keep  vigil  all  night  long. 
O  death,  call  not  the  holy  dead  to  rise, 

Again  to  feel  the  cold  world's  ruth  and  wrong. 


139 


XXII. 
ALONE,  YET  NOT  ALONE. 

Nursed  up  in  loneliness,  with  mine  own  soul 

The  one  companion  of  my  days  and  hours; 

Fed  on  the  light  of  nature,  as  the  flowers 
Are  fed  on  the  invisible  motes  that  roll 
Through  the  quick  ether;  feeling  the  control 

Of  that  God-man  who  once  with  matchless  powers 

Trod  the  far  hills  of  Galilee,  who  towers 
High  on  his  cross  above  the  shining  goal 
That  this  world's  martyrs  die  to  win;   alone, 

Yet  not  alone,  my  heart  hath  converse  had 
With  earth's  great  sages:  the  inarticulate  tone 

Of  singing  birds,  the  murmur  sweet  and  sad 
Of  meadow  streams — O  Love,  these  things  have  grown 

Into  my  life;  yet  love  alone  makes  glad. 


XXIII. 
RETURNED. 

How  all  the  weary  months  have  fled 
I   scarcely   know;   I   only  knew 

That  still  the  rose  its  petals  shed, 
The  sun  still  drank  the  dew. 

And  thou  art  come,  and  with  thee  light 
And  love  and  beauty  back  to  earth; 

O  bloom  and  fruitage  after  blight, 
Abundance  after  dearth! 

140 


XXIV. 
A  JEWEL. 

Love,  shouldst  thou  bid  me  pluck  down  out  of  heaven, 
To  blaze  within  those  glorious  locks  of  thine — 

Gems  never  queen  yet  wore — the  shining  Seven, 
I  could  not  gain  them;  I  am  not  divine. 

If  thou  shouldst  bid  me  plunge  into  tfie  deep, 

And  seek  a  pearl  such  as  no  human  eye 
E'er  saw,  or  mortal  dreamed  of  in  his  sleep, 

I  could  not  win  it,  though  I  were  to  die. 

Yet  such  a  jewel  as  time  cannot  defile, 

Nor  thieves  break  through  and  steal,  nor  fortune  dull, 
I  give  thee,  and  thou  spurnest  with  a  smile 

Severely  cold  yet  chastely  beautiful. 


XXV. 
LOVE'S    MIST. 

As  mountains  folded  in  a  misty  veil 
Are  hidden  when  the  heaven  makes  complaint, 
Their  beauty  seen  not,  save  where,  few  and  faint, 

The  wondrous  colors  glimmer  ghostly  pale; 

Nor  seen  the  lovely  tints  that  downward  trail 
From  airy  heights  no  human  hand  could  paint, 
Nor  beauteous  shapes  that,  without  flaw  or  taint, 

Across  the  living  landscape  slowly  sail: 

So,  shrouded  in  the  mists  of  thy  reserve, 

0  Love,  not  thy  true  loveliness  appears; 
Nor  tender  glow  of  eyes,  nor  dainty  curve 

Of  smiling  lip,  nor  song  for  lover's  ears. 
Love,  surely  thou  wouldst  true  love's  meed  deserve  1 

1  see  not  half  thy  beauty  for  my  tears. 


141 


XXVI. 
A  LOVER'S  PSALM. 

What  if  the  morn  no  more  should  break, 
And  all  the  stars  should  cease  to  shine, 

Wouldst  thou  still  love  for  dear  love's  sake, 
And  count  love's  light  divine? 

If  all  the  hills  stood  sunset-flushed, 
And  o'er  them,  breathing  summer  air, 

Bright  Beauty  like  a  goddess  blushed, 
Wouldst  thou  hold  love  more  fair? 

And,  ah!  what  if  the  flowers  were  not, 
And  hues  should  fade  from  sea  and  sky? 

Wouldst  still  grant  love  a  happier  lot, 
Though  such  sweet  things  could  die? 

What  if  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
Mixed  with  Amphion's  mellow  lute, 

Should  softly  strike  on  mortal  ears, 
Wouldst  bid  love's  voice  be  mute? 

Or  if  the  morning  stars  made  moan, 
And  birds  were  dumb  for  evermore, 

Wouldst  thou  believe  love's  troubled  tone 
Less  tender  than  before? 

Ah,  Love!  bring  me  no  bridal  dower, 
Save  love  that  hath  its  own  delight 

Beyond  a  song,  or  star,  or  flower, 
For  love  is  infinite. 


142 


XXVII. 
A  VIGIL. 

Down  by  the  shore  of  the  gray-lipped  sea, 
Down  where  the  caverns  are  dark  and  deep, 

Where  the  white  gull  screams  when  the  wind  goes  free, 
And  the  breakers  roar  and  the  mad  waves  leap, 

I  sat,  and  the  moon  was  a  mystery, 
And  the  world  was  lost  in  sleep. 

I  heard  no  sound  from  the  outer  vast. 
Though  the  spirit  of  storms  was  wild  that  night; 

I  heard  no  sound  from  the  dreadful  past, 
Though  a  loud  voice  wailed  from  that  land  of  blight; 

I  knew  death  rode  on  the  bitter  blast. 
But  my  heart  was  calm  and  light. 

For  a  thought  of  the  morning  came, 

And  the  pulse  in  my  bosom  beat 
Like  a  melody  born  of  a  musical  name. 

And  the  time  grew  strangely  sweet; 
And  my  life  rose  up  like  a  fragrant  flame, 

And  a  blossoming  world  at  my  feet. 

O  sorrow  was  on  the  sea  that  night, 

And  death  in  its  awful  din. 
And  the  white  gull  screamed  in  her  lonely  flight, 

But  my  soul  was  calm  within; 
For  life  had  climbed  to  a  holier  height, 

And  love  was  free  from  sin. 


143 


XXVIII. 
THE  MORNING  COMETH. 

O  sad  the  night  to  tired  eyes 

Long  burdened  with  the  weight  of  tears; 
But  sweet  the  blush  of  eastern  skies, 

When  morning's  light  appears. 

Yet  sweeter  far,  when  death's  dark  night 
Hath  sealed  on  earth  our  aching  eyes, 

To  see  in  heaven  God's  glorious  light 
Leap  up  immortal  skies. 


XXIX. 
IN  THE  TWILIGHT. 

Hope  in  the  orient,  hope  faint  and  pale; 

Cheat  not  thyself,  O  heart,  lest  faith  should  fail, 

Nor  cheat  despair: 

Hope  is  not  always  kind. 

Yon  lark,  whose  music  thrills  the  morning  air, 

Whose  winnowing  pinions  cleave  the  sobbing  wind- 

The  wordless  prayer 

Of  weary  earth  for  rest — 

Is  surer  sign  unto  the  tired  sight, 

Tired  of  watching  through  the  long  sad  night 

For  tardy  dawn  to  light  the  starless  skies, 


144 


Than  yon  uncertain  white. 

0  heart,  stir  not  within  my  breast, 

Stir  not,  O  heart,  by  night  so  long  oppressed, 
Lest  yonder  hint  of  morning  cheat  mine  eyes. 
Sweet  Pity  hath  assumed  a  strange  disguise, 
Sweet  Pity  to  proud  Love  so  near  akin; 
For  yestermorn,  as  through  the  fields  I  walked, 
When  all  the  world  rang  with  the  joyful  din 
Of  winged  voices  in  the  earth  and  sky, 

1  met  her — her,  the  loveliest  in  the  land, 
And,  with  a  soft  compassion  in  her  eye, 
She  gave  the  small  white  lily  of  her  hand 

To  me,  who  hearkened  dumbly  while  she  talked; 

And  though  I  cannot  now  recall  her  words, 

I  could  not  hear  for  her  sweet  voice  the  birds. 

Ah  me!  Ah  me! 

The  very  grass  was  grand! 

The  very  grass  o'er  which  she  moved  away, 

And  heaven  drew  nearer  earth  that  golden  day. 


145 


XXX. 

HEART'S-EASE. 

Life  must  have  its  dreary  days; 

Heart,  look  up,  be  brave  and  strong! 
Darkened  all  thy  devious  ways, 
Lost  thy  hopes  in  life's  dim  maze. 
Yet  shall  blame  give  way  to  praise, 

Right  shall  surely  conquer  wrong. 

Is  it  grievous  to  remember? 

Brings  the  past  a  bitter  boon? 
Cover  up  each  old  dead  ember 
Of  the  long,  long  past  November 
And  the  chill  and  dark  December; 

Naught  can  gloom  the  smile  of  June 

This  the  lesson  of  the  flower — 
All  who  wait,  wait  not  in  vain: 

Fret  not,  then,  when  shadows  lower; 

Whether  sunshine,  whether  shower; 

Know  that  in  the  darkest  hour 
Pleasure  follows  after  pain. 


146 


INTERLUDE. 

I  SAW  in  heaven  a  solitary  star 

Rise  out  of  darkness  clothed  in  living  light, 
And  speed  its  shining  message  from  afar 

Across  the  lonely  chaos  of  the  night. 
The  lesser  Bear  about  the  Boreal  pole, 

Like  a  worn  traveler  on  a  weary  march, 
Had  in  its  cycle  well-nigh  ceased  to  roll, 

And  pale  the  stars  grew  in  that  world-wide  arch. 
But  now,  when  other  lustres  had  waxed  dim, 

And  night  was   burden  in  the  depth  of  space, 
Up  from  behind  the  faint  horizon's  rim 

Arose  a  fuller  glory  into  place. 
And  there  it  burned,  with  radiance  newly  born. 

Till  night  her  ebon  wings  had  closely  furled, 
And  in  the  east  the  ruddy  light  of  morn 

Shook  like  a  sudden  splendor  o'er  the  world. 
O  blessed  lesson!    In  life's  troubled  night, 

From  out  the  darkness  shall  arise  a  hope 
That,  crescent,  shall  grow  brighter  and  more  bright, 

Till  through  the  gloom  we  shall  no  longer  grope; 
No  longer  grope;  and  upon  aching  eyes 

Shall  strike  the  morn,  and  night  shall  pass  away, 
And  from  behind  the  veil,  across  the  skies, 

Shall  burst  the  dawn  of  Love's  eternal  day. 


147 


PART   III— MORNING. 
AT  DAWN. 

The  long  night  draweth  to  its  close; 

Behold!  the  daybreak  doth  appear, 
And  in  the  east  the  orange-rose 

Of  morning  shineth  clear. 

The  dew-drop  glistens  on  the  spray, 
And  o'er  the  lush  green  meadow-grass, 

Parting  the  folded  mists  away, 
The  whistling  reapers  pass. 

With  mellow  voice  of  milk-maid  blends 
The  lowing  of  the  distant  kine, 

And  faintly  down  the  hollow  glens 
Morn's  dying  star  doth  shine. 

O  sweet  to  feel  the  life  of  dawn 
The  bounding  pulses  thrill  along, 

And  sweet  to  hear,  o'er  lea  and  lawn, 
The  songster's  matin  song. 

And  sweet  to  see,  when  storm  and  night 
Are  past,  the  day-star  beam  above; 

Ah!  Paradise  is  surely  light, 
And  God  eternal  love! 


148 


II. 

DOWN  THE  LANE 

Blossom  here  at  my  feet, 

Muffled  in  mosses  and  fern, 
O  was  it  not  here  that  she  passed  to  the  street, 

With  a  gracious  bow,  as  I  saw  her  turn. 
And  a  marvelous  smile  and  sweet? 

O  here  in  your  still  retreat, 

Blooming  in  beauty  alone, 
No  fairer  flower  than  you,  I  weet, 

In  a  royal  robe  has  shone; 
And  yet  her  array  was  more  complete, 

And  her  beauty  rarer  blown. 

Now  tell  me  if  she  be  true; 

Your  petals  shall  prophesy; 
'Tis  meet  that  they  should,  for  they  are  blue. 

And  blue  is  her  beautiful  eye; 
Yea,  blossom,  bluer  than  you, 

And  bluer  than  yon  blue  sky; — 
Not  false?     Ah.  now  what  shall  I  do? 

Sweet  thing,  I  fear  that  you  lie! 


III. 
A  BIRTHDAY  SONG. 

No  slight  boon  have  the  changeful  years 
Brought  unto  thee,  O  virgin  heart! 

As  flowers  wet  with  dewy  tears, 
I  watch  the  buds  of  hope  dispart, 

149 


While  April  merges  into  May, 
Thy  life's  sweet  April, 
Love. 

This  is  the  time  when  roses  bloom, 

And  thee,  my  rose,  my  fairest  flower, 
My  one  sweet  blossom  in  the  gloom 
My  own  life  hath  foreboding  shower, 
I  greet  upon  thy  natal  day; 
Spurn  not  the  greeting, 
Love. 

Life  of  my  life,'  love  of  my  love, 
Bless  God   for  thy  nativity! 

Thou  art  my  star,  my  hope,  my  dove, 
My  life  is  stay'd  in  thee. 

Fold  thou  no  meed  from  me  away; 
Love's  guerdon,  Love,  is 
Love! 


IV. 
LOVE  BROOKS  NOT  DELAY. 

Days  and  sennights,  months  and  year 

Time  hath  known  no  lapse; 
Gloom  and  glory,  smiles  and  tears — 

Many  are  love's  mishaps. 
Blight  and  blossom,  frost  and  fire — 

Beauty  fadeth  fast; 
Love  consumeth  of  desire, 

Summer  soon  is  past. 
Dawn  and  darkness,  morn  and  eve, 

Golden  locks  and  gray; 
Hearts  that  wait  can  only  grieve; 

Love  brooks  not  delay! 

150 


V. 

A  MEMORY. 

It  cometh  again  and  again — 

The  ghost  of  a  melody; 
With  an  under-sound  of  secret  pain 
In  its  oft-repeated,   faint   refrain — 

The  song  that  she  sang  to  me. 

The  song  of  yesternight; 

An  idyl  pathetic  and  sweet; 
A  song  that  rose  with  a  strange  delight, 
Till  it  fell  like  a  wounded  bird  in  flight— 

And  I  knelt  in  tears  at  her  feet. 

I  hear  it,  and  still  shall  hear; 

The  voice  of  a  day  that  is  past; 
With  its  hidden  pain,  and  hope,  and  fear, 
'Twill  haunt  my  life  with  its  sorrowful  cheer, 

Till  I  die  at  her  feet,  at  last! 


VI. 
INCOGNITO. 

Lo!  I  wander  in  a  maze; 

Laughing  lips,  and  grieving  eye; 
Smiling  blame,  and  frowning  praise — 
Strange  and  wondrous  are  love's  ways, 

Evermore  a  mystery! 

151 


VII. 
AN  IDYL  OF  LIFE. 

Love,  if  beyond  the  azure  overhead 
There  be  a  place  where  happy  spirits  meet, 

Nor  marriage  is,  nor  tears,  nor  any  dead, 
To  die  how  passing  sweet! 

Past  all  the  cruel  fever  and  the  pain, 

Past  barren  hopes,  and  plans,  and  foolish  fears. 
Past  all  annoy,  to  die  indeed  were  gain — 

The  meed  of  longing  tears. 

Only  to  sleep  a  long  and  dreamless  sleep, 
Nor  heed  the  sunshine,  nor  the  gentle  showers, 

Nor  shepherd's  song,  nor  sheep-bell  on  the  steep, 
Nor  smell  the  fragrant  flowers; 

Only  to  sleep,  nor  see  the  summer  sky; 

To  sleep,  nor  feel  the  joy  that  life  can  give 

Ah,  Love,  though  it  may  be  a  gain  to  die, 

Yet  it  is  sweet  to  live! 


VIII. 
SONG. 

If  thou  be  true,  dear  Heart, 
Or  false,  I  cannot  tell; 

I  know  how  beautiful  thou  art, 

I  know  I  love  thee  well; 

I  know  I'm  sad  when  thou  art  sad, 
And  more  than  glad  when  thou  art  glad. 


152 


And  yet,  I  would  not  keep 

Thee  from  one  pang  or  pain, 
If  sown  in  sorrow,  thou  shouldst  reap 
Of  good  one  golden  grain; 

For  so  the  seed,  sown  tearfully, 

In  flowers  of  light  should  gathered  be. 


IX. 
LEAVE  ME  NOT  YET. 

Leave  me  not  yet,  O  Love, 

Leave  me  not  yet; 
The   acacia   and   the   columbine 

With  dew  are  scarcely  wet. 
And  yonder  fragrant  eglantine 

Still  wooes  the  mignonette. 

Not  yet,  O  Love,  not  yet! 

Delay  a  moment,  Love, 

O  make  delay! 
In  purple  chambers  of  the  west 

We'll  watch  the  dying  day, 
And  from  the  foreland  and  the  height 

Scare  shadowy  night  away. 

Delay,  O  Love,  delay! 

Haste  not  to  go,  dear  Love, 

O  make  no  haste! 
Not  yet  the  lily  foldeth  up 

Her  sweetness— art  more  chaste? 
Not  yet  doth  modest  Dian  fleet 

Across   the   dusky  waste. 

Dear  Love,  O  make  no  haste! 

153 


Heed  not  the  darkness.  Love, 

Nor  shadows  heed; 
I  see  faint  Hesper  in  the  heaven, 

And  the  firefly  in  the  mead; 
But  if  thou  leave  me  now,  O  Love, 

Then  cometh  night  indeed. 

O  Love,  give  night  no  heed ! 


X. 
CARMEN  NOCTIS. 

Now  sleep  hath  kissed  the  white  brow  of  my  Love, 
And  closed  her  pearly  lids  with  touches  light, 

While  round  her,  cloud-like,  musically  move 
The  winged  dreams  of  night. 

The  river  murmurs  by  its  hidden  bowers, 
In  monotones  that  swell  or  faintly  swoon; 

And  sighing  out  their  souls,  the  love-sick  flowers 
Yearn  to  the  pallid  moon. 

From  out  the  dingle  ripples  sweet  and  clear 
The  plaintive  love-song  of  sad  Philomel, 

And  Echo,  o'er  the  solitary  mere, 
Mocks  back  her  ritournel. 

There  is  a  rustle  through  the  damask  fold 

Of  curtains  at  the  casement  wreathed  with  vine, 

And  Notus,  through  the  drapery  fringed  with  gold, 
Steals  in  with  song  divine: 

154 


Steals  in  across  the  quaintly  carven  plinth, 
With  gifts  from  lands  where  Summer  ever  smiles, 

With  subtle  perfume  of  the  hyacinth, 
And  spice  from  Indian  isles: 

Steals  in  to  sacrifice  at  Beauty's  shrine; 

He  who  alone  may  tread  that  fair  domain — 
O  dreamer  from  the  southern  palm  and  pine, 

Thy  worship  is  in  vain ! 

The  maiden  sleeps.     Keep  watch,  O  silent  stars! 

Keep  watch,  sweet  Luna,  now  my  lady  sleeps! 
Till  glad  Aurora  comes,  watch,  ruddy  Mars; 

Till  Tithon  newly  weeps! 


155 


XI. 
HESPER. 

O  star  of  the  pale-bosomed  night, 

Let  thy  smile  re-illumine  the  world; 
Like  a  garment  the  darkness  clothes  valley  and  height, 
In  the  dim-caverned  west  dies  the  opaline  light, 

And  the  pinions  of  sleep  are  unfurled. 

Come  forth  from  thy  tent  in  yon  cloud, 

That  thy  beauty  may  gladden  the  skies; 
See,  the  mountains  lie  folded  in  mist  like  a  shroud, 
And  the  river  that  loves  thee  is  singing  aloud, 
And  the  summer  wind  seeks  thee  with  sighs. 

In  her  chamber,  'mid  curtains  of  white, 

My  lady  lies  silent  in  sleep; 

O  star,  shed  thy  balm  through  the  strokes  of  the  night, 
Charm  the  hours,  as  they  go,  that  her  dreams  may  be 
bright, 

And  the  hush  of  the  darkness  be  deep. 

And  lo !  when  the  gates  of  the  dawn 

Shall  unfold,  and  the  shepherdess  leads 
Her  white  flock  to  feed  on  some  high  dewy  lawn, 
And  the  mists  and  the  visions  of  night  are  withdrawn, 

And  the  rivulet  sings  through  the  meads, — 

Then  fair  shall  my  lady  appear, 

And  sweet  as  the  breath  of  the  May; 
And  her  heart  shall  be  light  as  the  heart  of  the  year. 
And  shall  throb  into  song,  as  she  pauses  to  hear 

The  sound  of  the  wakening  day. 


158 


XII. 
MORNING  SONG. 

Star  of  the  morning,  arise! 

Arise  in  the  light  of  thy  love; 
Faintly  the  dawn  in  the  orient  skies 

Awakes   from  its  dreaming  the  dove. 

O  Love, 
Shine  on  the  dark  world  with  thine  eyes! 

Come  out  from  the  dim  land  of  dreams; 

Come  out,  for  the  dawning  is  near; 
In  the  heart  of  the  lily  the  dew-drop  gleams, 

In  the  eye  of  the  rose  is  a  tear. 

Ah,   Dear, 
Aurora's  light  already  beams. 

She  cometh  from  over  the  sea. 
And  a  hint  of  her  coming  was  heard, 

When  the  flowers  unfolded  o'er  woodland  and  lea, 
And  a  song  shook  the  breast  of  a  bird; 
It  stirred 

The  whole  sleeping  world,  save  thee. 

O  blithe  is  the  voice  of  the  rill, 

And  the  print  of  the  sandaled  feet 
Of  Morning  shines  on  yonder  hill, 

And  the  day  goes  far  and  fleet, 

O  Sweet, 
The  day — and  thou  slumberest  still! 


157 


XIII. 
FIOR  DI  LEVANTE. 

I  think  thou  canst  not  be.  Love,  what  thou  art, 
Or  if  so  be,  thou  seemest  more  than  all, 
For  when  thou  speak'st  I  hear  the  blithe  birds  call, 

And  in  thee  there  is  something  which  is  part 

Of  yon  blue  cope  and  ruddy  shafts  that  dart 
From  out  the  sunset,  of  the  mountains  tall, 
Of  laughing  brook  and  loud-voiced  waterfall, 

And  e'en  the  love  that  blossoms  in  my  heart. 

I  hear  in  sobbing  of  the  solemn  sea, 
In  sighing  shell  upon  the  silent  shore, 

In  distant  song  of  stars,  in  whispering  lea, 
A  frail,  faint  music  I  have  known  before — 

A  voice  like  unto  thine,  yet  not  of  thee, 

For  than  all  these  thou  still  art  something  more. 

O  Love,  thou  art  a  part  of  that  rich  flower 

Which  there  in  light  unfolds  a  purple  bloom; 

Whose  delicate  aroma  fills  my  room 
With  hints  of  thine  own  meekly  regal  power. 
Ah,  yes!    I  know  thee  now;  for  but  this  hour, 

Athwart  the  sunlight  there,  with  fine  perfume 

A  shadow  fell  from  out  the  purple  gloom — 
As  falls  the  mist-blue  light  when  tempests  lower — 
And  took  a  shape  of  fragrance,  which  was  thine. 

O  Zante!  thou  and  my  sweet  Love  are  one! 
O  Zante!  it  is  said  thou  art  divine; 

For  thou  in  Hyacinthus'  blood  wast  sown 
In  loveliness,  and  like  this  Love  of  mine 

Art  beautiful,  as  she  is  Beautv's  own ! 


158 


XIV. 
A  LOVER'S  VESPER  SONG. 

The  blue  bends  down  to  kiss  the  hills, 

The  hills  rise  up  to  kiss  the  blue, 
They  clasp  and  kiss  at  their  own  sweet  wills — 

Love,  why  not  I  and  you? 

The  sea  leaps  forward  to  the  land, 
The  land  folds  close  the  amorous  sea; 

They  meet  and  marry  on  the  strand — 
Love,  why  not  thus  meet  me? 

Look  off,  and  mark  the  fervid  west, 
How  night  stoops  down  to  woo  the  day, 

How  day  leans  on  night's  throbbing  breast — 
Sweet  Love,  shall  we  delay? 

The  hills  and  sky,  the  land  and  sea, 
The  day  and  darkness  teach  us  this, — 

That  you  must  wed,  dear  Love,  with  me, 
Or  life's  best  guerdon  miss. 


159 


XV. 

APOLOGY. 

O  what  a  life  to  live,  Dear, 

If  love  were  not,  if  love  were  not! 
Or  what  might  Heaven  give,  Dear, 

Of  sweeter  lot,  of  sweeter  lot? 
No  angel  form  in  woman's  guise, 

To  give  the  great  world  birth, 
With  hidden  wings  and  holy  eyes 

Might  meekly  walk  the  earth. 

O  what  a  death  to  die.  Dear, 
Bereft  of  love,  bereft  of  love! 

For  torn  the  fondest  tie.  Dear, 
What  hope  above,  what  hope  above? 

Ah,  weary  were  the  years,  I  trow, 
If  close  within  the  heart 

We  kept  no  shrine  where  we  might  bow 

.    From  all  the  world  apart. 


160 


XVI. 
THIS  TRUTH  THE  WORLD'S. 

This  truth  the  world's,  that  whoso  loves  is  free; 

No  cankering  fetters  mar  his  glad  estate; 

That  happy  man  who  finds  indeed  his  mate 
Mounts  straightway  up  into  eternity. 
He  is  not  slave  to  time,  nor  trouble  he; 

Not  bondman  unto  any  cruel  fate; 

He  knoweth  not  the  pain  of  those  who  wait 
For  that  which  never  was  and  cannot  be. 
Free  of  the  free,  and  blessed  of  the  blest; 

Prince-prophet  who  hath  a  divine  foretaste 
Of  that  rich  joy  which  spirits  feel  above; 
Glad  heart  that  entereth  early  into  rest; 

Blithe  pilgrim  o'er  life's  drear  and  desert  waste, 
Thou  art  immortal.     Yea,  for  God  is  love! 


XVII. 
SONG. 

O  roses,  Love,  are  blushing  red, 

And  bright  the  lily's  bloom, 
And  sweet  and  rare,  beyond  compare, 

The  morning's  rich  perfume. 
A  braver  beauty  never  shone 

Beneath  serener  skies, 
And  ne'er  have  blown  in  tint  and  tone 

Blooms  of  diviner  dyes; 
And  thou  too,  Love,  art  fairer  grown 

To  love-anointed  eyes. 

161 


XVIII. 
LOVE'S  HEALING. 

Why  should  thy  songs  be  ever  gay, 
O  love  so  full  of  grief  and  pain? 
I  sing  another  song  to-day 
That  hath  a  sad  refrain: 

A  little  lay 
Like  tender  April  rain. 

Love's  tears  make  love's  bright  blossoms  grow- 

O  blessed  be  the  frequent  showers! 
Nor  summer  sun,  nor  winter  snow. 
Can  yield  such  priceless  dowers: 

It  rains,   and  lo! 
The  earth  is  full  of  flowers. 

A  cloud,  like  an  unwelcome  truth. 

Oft  in  its  bosom  bears  a  boon 
We  wis  not  of  until,  forsooth, 
It  droppeth  like  a  tune — 

O  heart  of  ruth, 
Like  dew  in  nights  of  June. 

Come  shine  or  shower,  come  bliss  or  bane, 

What  matter,  if  they  healing  bring? 
Love  binds  but  with  a  golden  chain. 
Each  link  a  wedding  ring. 

O  happy  twain 
Who  weep,  and  weeping  sing! 


162 


XIX. 

MY  LADY. 

As  shine  from  yonder  dusky  skies 
The  stars  that  fret  the  pallid  night, 

So  shine  my  Lady's  heavenly  eyes, 
To  fill  the  world  with  tender  light. 

Her  voice  is  sweet  as  tinkling  rills 
That  meet  and  mingle  musically, 

And  trip  together  down  the  hills, 
To  lose  themselves  within  the  sea. 

Not  sweeter  is  the  breath  of  June, 
That  stirs  her  garments  lovingly, 

Than  are  the  words  which,  like  a  tune, 
Fall  from  her  lips  melodiously. 

Her  hair  is  like  a  golden  mesh 
Wherein  the  tangled  sunshine  lies, 

And  like  primroses,  fair  and  fresh, 
Her  cheeks  the  dewy  morning  dyes. 

As  leans  the  lily  on  its  stalk. 

When  lightly  falls  the  wooing  shower, 
So  leans  she  from  the  garden  walk, 

To  catch  the  scent  of  some  rare  flower. 

The  earth  is  fairer  since  she  is. 
And  nearer  leans  the  happy  sky; 

And  half  his  terrors  death  shall  miss, 
Because  my  Lady,  too,  must  die. 


163 


XX. 

LOVE'S  MIRROR. 

Go  to  thy  mirror,  Love,  where  thou  may'st  view 
The  rose  of  beauty  blooming  in  thy  face, 
And  chide  me  not  that,  dazzled  by  thy  grace, 

I  give  thee  praise  thou  countest  not  thy  due. 

A  lovelier  lip  than  thine  I  never  knew, 
And  never  life  in  fairer  form  found  place, 
And  Time,  methinks,  were  he  but  to  erase 

One  lovely  line,  forevermore  must  rue. 

O  love  were  slain  of  love,  if  in  thy  pride 
Of  secrecy  thou  shouldst  veil  every  charm, 

And  that  whereof  he  thrives  to  love  denied, 
Himself  must  to  himself  do  mortal  harm. 

Nay  look,  Love,  in  thy  glass,  nor  longer  chide 
When  love  in  passionate  praises  waxeth  warm. 


164 


XXI. 

THE  DREAM. 

Last  night  I  dreamed  that  thou  wast  by  my  side, 
And  thy  sweet  voice  fell  flute-like  on  mine  ear. 
In  accents  solemn,  low,  yet  silver-clear, 

And  thou  didst  look  upon  me  tender-eyed. 

Then  all  my  passionate  longing  and  my  pride, 
All  my  dull  pain  of  hopelessness  and  fear, 
Vanished  like  mist  upon  a  mountain  mere 

Which  the  warm  sun  salutes  at  morning-tide. 

All  night  my  heart  was  full  of  speechless  bliss 
And  though  thou  wast  less  human  than  divine, 

I  felt  at  last  I  nevermore  should  miss 
From  out  my  life  that  loveliness  of  thine; 

For  when  our  souls  closed  in  one  swooning  kiss, 
I  knew  eternally  that  thou  wast  mine. 


165 


XXII. 
SONG. 

Fly,  robin,  fly! 

Fly  to  the  nest  of  thy  love; 

Fly  for  the  evening  star  is  on  high, 

And  the  moon  is  over  the  grove. 

Fly,  robin,  fly  away, 

For  night  is  come  with  shadows  gray, 

O  fly  away,  away! 

Fly,  robin,  fly! 

Fly  at  the  call  of  thy  mate; 

Fly,  for  the  darkness  covers  the  sky, 

And  it  is  hard  to  wait. 

Fly,  robin,  do  not  stay; 

Hush!  it  is  no  longer  day; 

O  haste  away,  away! 

Go,  O  foolish  heart 

Go,  with  the  robin's  flight; 

No  longer  keep  from  truth  apart; 

Go,  seek  thy  Love  to-night. 

O  hasten,  heart,  away; 

They  only  lose  who  make  delay; 

O  heart,  away,  away! 


166 


XXIII. 
REVELATION. 

Great  God !  what  was  it  gave  me  utterance 
To-night,  and  nerved  my  heart,  that  I  did  dare 

To  brave  my  fate,  and  blindly  throttle  chance, 
And  gain  a  good  that  seems  too  great  to  bear? 

O  peace  and  plenty  after  plague  and  dearth! 

Not  wholly  dark  the  world,  nor  drear  the  way. 
God  grant  I  may  not  fail  from  off  the  earth, 

Nor  find  that  I  have  dreamed  with  breaking  day! 


167 


XXIV. 
CAROL. 

Night  from  dark  world 

Her  mantle  hath  drawn, 
And  low  on  thy  lattice,  Love, 

Trembles  the  dawn. 
Morn  from  the  orient 

Cometh  in  pride 
Of  saffron  and  crimson. 

And  fair  as  a  bride. 
In  thy  garden  the  roses 

Are  lying  awake, 
And  never  a  moment 

Of  slumber  they  take; 
They  glow  with  the  tidings 

They  bear,  Love,   for  thee — 
A  message  of  morning 

From  over  the  sea. 
O  tarry  no  longer 

With  dull-lidded  sleep; 
Fly  the  false  visions 

That  have  thee  in  keep! 
Rise  in  thy  loveliness, 

Morning-to-be ; 
Lo,  I  am  waiting,  Love. 

Dawn  thou  on  me! 


168 


XXV. 

ALL'  ALBA. 

'Twas  morning,  and  the  western  sky  was  dark; 

'Twas  morning,  and  the  west  was  drowned  in  gloom; 

But  in  the  east,  as  if  a  rose  did  bloom 
Within  the  doubtful  darkness,  grew  a  mark 
Of  rosy  light  and  spread  in  a  wide  arc, 

And  higher  up  the  heavens  slowly  clomb. 

Then  those  great  clouds  that  in  the  west  did  loom 
Were  sundered  quite  and  vanished.     A  swift  lark 
Rose  from  the  meadow  straight  up  in  the  sky, 

And  from  his  breast  upbubbled  a  sweet  song 
That  fainter  grew  and  fainter,  as  more  high 

He  rose,  yet  seemed  in  rapture  to  prolong, 
Until  in  heaven  it  did  fail  and  die. 

Below  reechoed  by  a  countless  throng. 

The  world  is  very  warm  and  full  of  light; 

Ay,  full  of  light  and  beauty  and  of  song; 

I  cannot  understand  how  I  so  long 
Have  shivered  'neath  the  sombre  wings  of  Night. 
I  cannot  find  a  face  that  is  not  bright 

And  glowing  with  the  gladness  of  a  strong, 

Great  love,  and  on  the  earth  there  is  no  wrong, 
Nor  mildew,  sorrow,  care,  nor  any  blight. 
There  is  a  music  o'er  the  whole  wide  world. 

And  choral  voices  hymning  in  love's  sphere, 
And  like  the  Sphinx,  Despair  her  wings  hath  furled, 

And  very  dull  and  heavy  is  her  ear; 
Within  my  heart  there  lies  a  hope  impearled — 

A  new-found  hope:  O  joy  is  everywhere! 


169 


XXVI. 
LOVE  DOTH  NOT  IN  CASTLES  DWELL. 

Love  doth  not  in  castles  dwell, 

Nor  in  cot  nor  palace  he; 

Not  on  land  nor  on  the  sea. 
Nor  by  flood  nor  fell. 

Love  is  neither  here  nor  there; 
Not  in  cradle,  nor  in  grave, 
Not  in  dungeon  with  the  slave; 

Love  is  everywhere. 

Love  is  not  a  poet's  dream; 
'Tis  not  that,  nor  is  it  this— 
Pain  or  pleasure,  bale  or  bliss; 

Neither  gloom  nor  gleam. 

Love  cannot  be  told  by  years; 

Never  young,  and  never  old; 

Never  bought,  and  never  sold, 
Save  for  smiles  or  tears. 

Not  below,  nor  yet  above; 

Neither  is  he  bond  nor  free; 

Lo,  behold  the  mystery: 
Love  is — only  love! 


170 


XXVII. 
LOVE  HATH  COME  TO  ME. 

My  heart  sings  as  the  birds  sing 

In  the  soft  summer  weather, 
And  all  the  little  loves  take  wing 

Round  the  green  world  together; 
The  fountains  purl  a  sweeter  tune, 

The  flowers  are  fairer  far  to  see, 
And  richer  is  the  life  of  June, 

Since  love  hath  come  to  me. 

It  was  but  yester-even, 

Amid  the  shadows  gray, 
True  heart  to  heart  was  given 

Forever  and  a  day; 
O  earth,  such  happy,  happy  words 

Bring  Eden  back  again  to  thee! 
Ah,  sing  your  blithest,  merry  birds, 

For  love  hath  come  to  me. 

Sound  through  the  dusk,  O  whip-poor-will, 

Sound,  while  the  slow  stars  brighten, 
Your  ritournel  from  hill  to  hill. 

Till  morning  skies  shall  lighten; 
Old  world,  thou  yet  art  very  bright; 

Let  shine  or  shadow  round  me  be, 
I'll  welcome  day,  or  welcome  night, 

Since  love  hath  come  to  me. 


171 


XXVIII. 
A  SONG  OF   THE  SUNSET. 

List,  Love,  oh  list! 

Hear'st  thou  the  voice  of  the  trees? 

Hear'st  thou  the  music  of  the  mist 

Stealing  along  the  leas? 

O,  sweet  yon  orange  light 

Against  the  deep  sky's  blue  repose, 

And  bland  the  breath  of  the  summer  night, 

And  rare  the  scent  of  the  rose. 

Look,  Love,  oh  look 

At  the  silvery  shine  of  the  stars. 

Beginning  to  tremble  where  lately  shook 

The  sunset's  crimson  bars! 

And  there  in  the  deepening  dusk, 

Across  the  billowy  lawn. 

The  lilies  lie  in  a  dream  of  musk, 

Awaiting  the  dewy  dawn. 

O  Love,  the  night  is  come, 

And  where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver 

The  voices  of  the  day  are  dumb, 

O'er  hill  and  field  and  river; 

And  nature's  fairest  gems  are  strown 

Adown  that  radiant  way 

The  spicy  breath  of  morn  is  blown, 

Upon  earth's  bridal  day. 

172 


Sleep,  Love,  oh  sleep! 

For  night  on  the  weary  world 

Hath  flitted  down  yon  azure  steep, 

And  her  dew-wet  wings  are  furled; 

O  tenderly  on  tired  eyes 

She  lays  her  shadowy  hand, 

And  rich  the  balm  and  sweet  the  calm 

O'er  all  the  quiet  land. 


173 


XXIX. 

OVERWROUGHT. 

Last  night,  beneath  the  summer  stars  we  stood, 
And  with  her  fragrant  breath  against  my  cheek, 
I  twined  her  hair  in  fashion  of  the  Greek, 

And  from  the  roses  round  about  us  strewed 

I  made  for  her  a  crown  as  red  as  blood. 
The  fountain  rose  from  out  the  white  swan's  beak 
And  fell  with  music;  still  she  did  not  speak, 

Nor  did  I  break  the  silence  of  her  mood, 

But  marked  the  humor  of  her  maiden  art. 
She  stood  with  eyes  downcast,  and  I  could  hear — 

Or  fancied  so —  the  beating  of  her  heart. 

She  stooped  to  pluck  a  red  rose  growing  near, 

And  as  she  thrust  the  thorny  boughs  apart, 
I  kissed  her  peerless  cheek,  and  lo,  a  tear! 


174 


XXX. 

DOUBTED 

What?  dost  thou  doubt  me,  Love? 

Have  I  waited,  then,  in  vain? 
Doth  naught  that  I  suffered  prove 

My  passion  is  deeper  than  pain? 
Constant  when  thou  didst  scorn; 

Patient  when  thou  didst  spurn; 
Hoping,  though  hope  of  hope  were  shorn: 

Is  there  something  still  to  learn? 

Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  circumstance 

Can  make  or  mar  again; 
A  sovereign  ordered  not  of  chance, 

Love  is  not  slave  to  men. 
Yet  fearest  thou  that  he  will  change, 

Now  love  to  love  is  kind? 
Ah,  thou  forgettest  he  may  not  range, 

For  love  was  always  blind! 


175 


XXXI. 

THE   GIFT. 

See  what  I  bring  to  thee,  dear  Love,  dear  Love, 

To  type  the  pure  affection  of  my  heart; 

I  might  not  bring  an  earnest  to  impart 
How  pure  it  is  so  well  as  this  white  dove. 
And  yet  were  I  to  seek  by  this  to  prove 

My  innocence  of  any  specious  art, 

I  might  defeat  myself  and  in  the  part 
Of  arrant  knave,  or  fool,  or  jester  move. 
O  yet  believe  me  by  this  snow-white  bird — 

By  every  agony  that  doth  inure 
The  heart  to  waiting  and  to  hope  deferred — 

By  every  hope  that  ever  did  endure 
Against  a  blighting  scorn  or  bitter  word — 

My  trust  is  loyal,  my  affection  pure! 


176 


XXXII. 
FORBEARANCE. 

That  I  should  love  thee  seemeth,  Love,  most  meet; 

For  who  that  once  hath  looked  in  thy  true  eye, 

And  felt  thy  maiden  soul's  white  purity, 
Could  other  than  do  homage  at  thy  feet? 
But,  ah!  I  wonder,  Love,  when  I  repeat 

Love's  oft-told  tale  and  to  thee  madly  cry, 

Thou  dost  not  spurn  my  presence  utterly, 
Or  swiftly  from  my  passionate  arms  retreat. 
O  Love,  that  I  should  even  dare  to  hear 

One  uttered  syllable  of  thine,  or  hold 
For  one  brief  moment  thy  warm  hand,  nor  fear 

To  sit  beside  thee,  seemeth  overbold. 
Ah!  lover  never  yet  was  suffered  near 

A  mortal  maid  of  so  divine  a  mould! 


177 


XXXIII. 
LOVE'S  VICTORY. 

Love,  should  I  find  thee  other  than  I  deem — 
Less  noble  than  I  hold  thee  in  my  thought — 
Then   might   the   potent   spell   which   love   hath 
wrought, 

Fade  like  the  baseless  tissues  of  a  dream; 

For  if  thou  be  not  that  which  thou  dost  seem, 
My  reason  to  my  reason  this  hath  taught — 
That  though  thou  be  with  outward  beauty  fraught, 

It  can  no  want  of  inward  grace  redeem. 

But,  ah!  I  wrong  thee  by  this  cruel  doubt, 
That  ever  thou  couldst  so  dissimulate; 

And  now  my  love-wise  heart  doth  reason  flout, 
That  he  should  dare  presume  on  love's  estate; 

And  sorely  pressed  in  an  inglorious  rout, 
He  flies  the  field  and  yields  the  spoil  to  fate. 


178 


XXXIV. 
RECOMPENSE. 

Out  of  the  darkness,  out  of  the  night, 
Out  of  the  shadows  of  dole  and  dread, 

Out  of  the  bitterness,  out  of  the  blight; 
O  joy!  let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead. 

For  the  hurt  there  is  healing;  for  weary  ones  rest; 

Comfort  for  those  who  in  loneliness  weep; 
Lo!  the  last  sun  sinks  away  in  the  west, 

And  so  He  doth  give  His  beloved  ones  sleep. 

Large  is  the  guerdon,  O  Life,  that  thou  givest; 

Recompense  sweeter  than  rest  there  is  none; 
O  heart,  it  is  thine !  be  glad  that  thou  li'vest ! 

Sweet,  sweet  is  the  calm  when  the  tempest  is  done! 


179 


XXXV. 

EPINICION. 

And  thou  art  mine,  and  mine  are  love  and  peace; 

Yea,  thou  and  these  are  mine  forevermore; 

The  cold  dark  Winter  of  my  life  is  o'er, 
And  Spring  comes  in   crowned  with  the  year's  in- 
crease. 

Yea,  mine  for  time  and  for  eternity; 
To  keep  and  cover  here  within  my  heart 
Through  all  the  years,  and  nevermore  to  part — 

Nay,  death  could  not  dissever  thee  and  me! 

Mine  only,  and  the  night  is  overpast; 

Mine,  and  the  morning  moves  upon  the  sky; 

Mine,  mine  alone!   O  joy  to  live  or  die! 
Through  flood  and  fire  to  the  palm  at  last! 


180 


L'ENVOY. 

AN    AUTUMN    SONG. 

O  HEARKEN,  Love,  across  the  fell, 

And  up  the  flaming  dingle, 
The  lusty  songs  of  reapers  swell, 

And  sheep  bells  faintly  mingle. 
The  sumac  on  the  hillside  burns. 

And,  each  pale  leaf  adorning, 
The  yellow  sunlight  softly  yearns 

Through  this  October  morning. 

Adown  the  aisles  of  yonder  wold, 

Dear  Love,  do  you  remember 
How  gladly,  hand  in  hand,  we  strolled 

And  thought  not  of  December? 
But  now  the  golden-rods  alone 

Stand  in  the  sun  and  shiver, 
Where  then  a  summer  glory  shone 

By  brook  and  rill  and  river. 

O  Love,  we  will  not  mourn  the  past, 

Though  Autumn  cometh  quickly, 
And  round  the  heart  death's  icy  blast 

Shall  sow  its  sorrows  thickly; 
For  in  God's  heaven  the  winter  comes 

With  desolation  never, 
But  there  perennial  Summer  blooms 

Forever  and  forever. 


181 


TEMPLE  BELLS. 


FORGIVEN. 

"Qui  sine  peccato  est  vestrum,  primus  in  illam  lapidem 
mittat." 

"HATH  no  one  cast  a  stone  at  thee?" 
"Nay,  Lord,"  she  humbly  said, 

And  from  the  pavement  tearfully 
She  raised  her  fallen  head. 

With  anxious  hands  her  burning  face 

She  sought  to  hide;  her  hair, 
A  midnight  stream,  with  careless  grace 

Flowed  round  her  shoulders  bare. 

"Go  thou  and  sin  no  more."   His  eyes 

Like  heaven  above  her  bent. 
And  tremulous  with  awed  surprise 

She  from  Him  slowly  went. 


RAIN  ON  THE  SEA. 

IT  needs  not,  Lord,  that  thy  full  hand  should  pour 
This  bounty  of  the  sweet  and  cooling  rain 
Upon  the  brimming  ocean's  sterile  plain, 

When  for  one  little  portion  of  this  store 

Somewhere  the  famished  earth  prays  o'er  and  o'er; 
Why  shouldst  thou  cast  this  largess  thus  in  vain 
To  melt  into  the  wide  and  barren  main, 

When  the  long  drouth  lays  waste  the  teeming  shore? 


186 


Forgive  us.  Lord,  that  in  thine  ear  is  shrilled 
The  futile  challenge  of  our  childish  "why"; 

Haply  the  clouds  thy  mercy  have  distilled 
On  the  great  deep  that,  where  wrecked  seamen  lie 

Haggard  and  spent  and  with  night-watches  chilled, 
Of  thirst  on  their  frail  raft  they  should  not  die. 


WINTER  SOLSTICE. 

THE  huddled  clouds  above  ,the  hill 
Close  darkly  down;  from  dripping  trees 

The  brown  leaves  flutter  to  the  rill 
And  hush  their  summer  symphonies. 

Chill  is  the  morn;  a  wandering  breath 
Of  frost  and  silence  in  the  night 

Steals  forth  with  solemn  hints  of  death, 
And  fills  the  world  with  vague  affright. 

Yet  when  the  rude  north's  bitter  scath 
Breaks  wildly  round  the  smitten  year, 

To  earth,  despite  the  winter's  wrath, 
The  sun  draws  nearer  and  more  near. 

Thus  when,  through  black  portents  of  doom, 
The  heart  grows  sick  with  dread  and  dole, 

All  unperceived  amid  the  gloom 

Kind  heaven  draws  nearer  to  the  soul. 


186 


THE  CAGED  BIRD. 

O  SOUL,  fret  not  against  thy  bars; 

Thou  art  a  caged  and  weary  thing; 
Above  thee  calmly  wheel  the  stars 

And  night's  vast  psalm  forever  sing. 

Sing  thou,  nor  let  the  dying  light, 
Nor  trooping  shadows,  dim  and  long, 

Nor  ghostly  mists  that  veil  thy  sight, 
Affray  thy  faith,  and  hush  thy  song. 

The  twilight  deepens— be  at  rest; 

Now  fold  thy  bruised  and  drooping  wing; 
Arid  till  at  length  this  prisoning  breast 

Shall  burst  and  free  thee,  bravely  sing. 


THE  CALL  OF  HOME. 

Yea,  Lord,  if  it  could  be,  if  it  could  be, 
That  I  might  leave  the  weariness  and  pain 
Of  this  sad  exile  o'er  the  soundless  main, 

Whose  restless  waters  roll  'twixt  me  and  Thee; 

If — while  the  day  grows  wan  and  shadowy, 
And,  like  a  conqueror  amid  the  slain, 
Night  moves  with  lordly  footsteps  o'er  the  plain — 

Death's  sudden  messenger  should  come  to  me 

With  summons  to  depart,  I  should  not  go 
As  one  to  whom  the  journey  were  a  fear, 

But  I  should  gladly  leave  earth's  mimic  show, 
And  these  dim  ways  which  are  so  chill  and  drear, 

And  'mid  green  fields,  where  living  waters  flow, 
Fare  homeward  after  many  a  weary  year. 


187 


THE  STRICKEN  KING. 

The  summer  sunshine,  through  the  tremulous  leaves, 
Along  the  marble  floor  sowed  its  bright  gules 
Where  in  his  chamber  lay  the  stricken  king, 
Wasted,  and  hollow-eyed,  and  touched  with  death. 
About  him  learned  leeches,  brought  from  far, 
Hovered  to  count  each  sterterous  sigh,  each  slow 
And  fitful  pulse-beat,  for  no  potion  soothed 
The  mortal  anguish  of  his  malady. 
Then  were  the  secrets  of  the  oracle 
Consulted,  and  a  solemn  voice  was  heard 
Declaring  that  whene'er  the  king  should  clothe 
His  pain-racked  body  in  the  shirt  of  one 
Whose  happiness  was  perfect,  from  his  flesh 
The  torment  should  depart,  and  health  once  more 
Flush  his  wan  cheek.    So  through  the  kingdom  went 
The  heralds  diligently  forth,  but  found 
None  in  whose  cup  of  joy  no  bitter  drop 
Was  intermingled.     Some  in  secret  pined 
From  very  fullness  of  delight,  since  naught 
Was  left  to  wish  for;  some  in  wantonness 
Dashed  in  the  dust  their  honeyed  chalices, 
That  thus  a  subtler  pleasure  they  might  know 
In  striving  to  regain  the  perished  sweet. 
Discouraged  in  their  quest,  the  pursuivants, 
Weary  and  heavy-hearted,  homeward  turned 
Their  careworn  faces.     In  a  dewy  vale, 
Where  the  cool  shadows  of  the  mountains  lay, 
And  a  clear  stream  made  all  the  solitude 
Glad  with  its  song,  a  snowy-bearded  man, 
Calm-browed  and  gentle,  leaned  upon  a  staff, 
Midway  a  mossy  bridge.    The  dusty  band, 
Drooping  their  banners,  halted,  and  once  more. 
Languid  and  hopeless,  made  their  mission  known. 


188 


Amazed  they  listened  while  the  reverend  man 
Confessed  he  knew  no  want,  no  grief,  no  loss, 
And  that  his  happiness  was  as  a  sun 
Whose  fair  effulgence  not  a  cloud  distained. 

Then  from  his  horse  the  captain  leaped,  and  prayed 
The  white-haired  one  to  doff  his  shirt  and  send 
The  garment  for  the  healing  of  the  king. 
Slowly  the  wrinkled  hands  were  raised  to  loose 
The  fastening  of  the  tattered  cloak,  when,  lo! 
The  light  of  day  smote  on  the  naked  breast 
And  the  nude  shoulders  of  the  aged  man 
Whom  poverty  denied  a  shirt  to  wear. 


189 


CONSIDER  THE  LILIES. 

Consider  the  lilies,  O  my  heart, 

Poor  heart,  so  slow,  so  late  to  learn! 

Thou  more  than  meat  and  raiment  art; 
Wilt  thou  still  earthward  yearn? 

Consider  the  lilies,  how  they  grow; 

O  heart,  they  neither  toil  nor  spin, 
Yet  they  are  clad  in  robes  like  snow; 

Art  thou  as  pure  within? 

Wherefore,  if  God  so  clothe  the  grass, 
Shall  He  not  clothe  thee.  as  He  saith? 

Clothe  thee  upon  with  righteousness, 
O  thou  of  little  faith? 

Behold  the  small  fowls  of  the  air, 
They  sow  not,  neither  do  they  reap, 

They  take  no  thought,  no  carking  care, 
They  neither  watch  nor  weep; 

And  yet  the  Father  feedeth  these— 
O  heart,  where  is  thy  boasted  trust? 

No  more  of  sloth  or  doubting  ease; 
Arise  from  out  the  dust ! 

Go,  get  thee  to  thy  work  again; 

Know  thou  that  verily  in  the  Lord 
Thy  labor  cannot  be  in  vain: 

Thou  shalt  have  thy  reward. 

No  sparrow  falleth  to  the  earth 
Without  the  Father,  and  thou  art 

Than  many  sparrows  of  more  worth, 
O  faithless,  foolish  heart ! 

190 


Therefore  take  thou  no  anxious  thought; 

Thy  strength  shall  still  be  as  thy  day; 
The  birds  and  lilies  have  not  wrought, 

But  thou  art  more  than  thev. 


HOMEWARD. 

For  what  unguessed,  late  prize  I  strove  so  long, 
I  know  not;  lo!  my  striving  now  is  past; 

For  that  the  battle  is  not  to  the  strong, 
Nor  the  race  to  the  swift,  I've  learned  at  last. 

I  know  not  whither  winds  the  path  I  tread, 
Nor  what  the  goal  that  I  shall  reach  at  length, 

When  I  no  more  shall  eat  this  bitter  bread, 

Nor  quaff  this  cruse  of  tears,  to  nourish  strength. 

Unto  what  purpose  have  I  bared  my  arms 
For  tasks  that  grew  more  irksome  day  by  day, 

Or  kept  my  life  safe  from  the  lurking  harms 
That  round  my  steps  in  cunning  ambush  lay? 

Yet  I  have  learned  in  every  perilous  place 

That  somewhere  still,  unseen.  His  watchers  wait; 

That  each  dark  path  leads  to  the  Father's  face, 
The  smile  of  welcome  and  the  open  gate. 


191 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  KING. 

Silent  the  sleeping  hills! 

Silent  the  large  cool  night! 
Far  eastward,  where  the  morn  first  spills 

Its  fires,  a  little  light 
Kindles  athwart  the  dark. 
Through  heaven's  wide  concave,  hark! 
Mid  star-sprent  spaces  vast  and  dim 
Rolls  a  majestic  hymn 
Above  a  wailing  Babe  whose  silken  hair 
Presses  a  rude  and  strawy  pillow  where 
Patient,  uncomprehending  oxen  stare. 
Clap  all  your  hands,  ye  hills!  be  glad,  ye  skies! 
O  longed-for  Splendor,  bless  the  anxious  eyes 
Of  weary  watchers,  waiting  in  the  night 
The  dawning  of  the  long-expected  Light; 
Doff,  breathless  world,  thy  starry  diadem, 
And  welcome  now  the  Babe  of  Bethlehem. 

Ah,  stupid  eyes  close  sealed  in  selfish  sleep ! 

Ah,  stolid  ears  long  dulled  with*  slumber  deep ! 

Ye  ne'er  may  know  again 

A  night  like  this;  the  stars  begin  to  wane 

Already,  and  the  chorus  of  the  skies 

Withdraws  far  up  the  azure  cope  and  dies. 

The  morn  shall  break,  as  it  hath  done  before, 

For  you,  but  never,  never  more 

Such  wonders  shall  be  known. 

E'en  now  the  night  is  o'er; 

Behold!  the  King  hath  come  unto  his  own. 


192 


PATIENCE. 

O  God,  I  pray  Thee  give  me  quietude, 

Though  it  be  midst  the  wrecks  of  broken  years; 

Scatter  Thou  from  mine  eyes  the  blinding  tears, 
And  cool  the  burning  fever  in  my  blood. 
Lo!  I  am  swept  away  as  with  a  flood; 

My  soul  is  beaten  on  by  stormy  fears; 

I  cannot  see,  and  ever  through  mine  ears 
Surge  empty  echoes  of  the  solitude. 
O,  teach  me  to  be  patient  and  to  wait; 

Teach  me  to  quell  that  spirit  in  my  breast 
Which  irks  the  slow-paced  hours,  and  cries,  "Too 
late !" 

Urge  on  my  heart  this  lesson — that  'twere  best 
To  suffer  even  to  death  "without  the  gate," 

If  so  my  soul  might  enter  into  rest. 


WHEN  I  HAVE  LIVED  MY  LIFE. 

When  I  have  lived  my  life,  and  death  at  last 

Draws  the  sweet  breath  from  out  my  white,  cold  lips; 

When  o'er  my  fixed,  faint  eyes  the  swift  eclipse 
Of  dissolution  draws,  and  thick  and  fast 
The  shadows  no  man  knows  crowd  up  the  vast 

Dim  vista  of  eternity;  when  dips 

My  final  sun  from  sight,  and  darkness  slips 
Upon  me,  quenching  utterly  the  past; 
Then  while  fond  friends  around  me  weep  and  pray, 

And  come  to  kiss  their  last  kiss,  one  by  one, — 
Ere  yet  hath  faded  quite  the  light  of  day, 

And  ere  my  mortal  sands  are  fully  run, — 
God,  grant  that  I  may  hear  one  dear  Voice  say, 

With  love  and  tenderness,  "Well  done!  well  done!" 


193 


THE   HUMAN   NEED. 

Along  the  snow-fed  rivers  of  the  north 

Ne'er  waves  a  flower,  or  fern,  or  fronded  palm; 

There  every  frosty  stream  and  frozen  firth, 
Lies  locked  in  white,  unchanging,  icy  calm. 

But  where  the  spice-winds  fan  the  orange  groves, 
And  trailing  vines  sway  as  the  waters  sway, 

Is  heard  the  sound  of  many  a  voice  that  loves, 
Fluting  its  song  through  all  the  happy  day. 

O  God,  if  in  thy  Heaven,  where  all  is  pure, 
Peace  shall  infold  us  like  a  polar  sea, 

Here  in  this  changeful  world  let  me  endure, 
Where  still  warm  human  love  can  come  to  me. 


194 


THE  ADVENT. 

The  darkness  folds  the  sleeping  world; 

The  stars  are  quiet  in  the  skies; 
The  low  moon,  like  a  feather  curled, 

Upon  the  faint  horizon  lies. 

About  his  sheep-cote  on  the  hill 
The  weary  shepherd  paces  slow; 

Within,  the  huddled  flock  is  still; 
Without,  the  frost-winds  shrewdly  blow. 

Ah,  breathless  hour  of  hopes  and  fears! 

Hark!  through  the  solemn  midnight  hush, 
From  myriad  sudden -brightening  spheres, 

A  million  quiring  voices  rush. 

Yea,  sing,  ye  trembling  morning  stars! 

With  music  break  the  awful  spell; 
O  Phosphor,  burst  your  radiant  bars, 

And  burn  o'er  Bethlehem's  lowly  cell! 

But  hark !  above  cherubic  hymn, 
More  clear  than  anthem  of  the  sky, 

Up  from  yon  stable,  rude  and  dim, 
Quavers  an  Infant's  feeble  cry. 

O  earth,  be  glad,  thine  hour  hath  come! 

O  happy  winds,  the  tidings  tell! 
Clap  all  your  hands,  ye  forests  dumb! 

Ye  mountains,  hail  Immanuel! 

Now  shall  the  ways  of  men  be  blest; 

Now  from  the  world  shall  lift  the  night; 
From  north  to  south,  from  east  to  west, 

Shall  stream  the  ever-growing  light. 


195 


Let  every  sound  of  sorrow  cease, 
And  Eden's  songs  be  heard  again; 

O'er  all  the  earth  henceforth  be  peace, 
And  evermore  good  will  to  men. 


THE  LOVE  UNSPEAKABLE. 

"For  God  so  loved  the  world" — O  love  divine ! 

Love  which  our  human  hearts  but  faintly  feel; 

Love  whose  vast  depth  no  uttered  words  reveal; 
Love  which  makes  light  in  this  dark  soul  of  mine; 
Behold!  we  know  thee  by  this  awful  sign — 

A  cross  whereon  large  drops  of  blood  congeal, 

A  rock-hewn  sepulcher,  a  shattered  seal, 
And  a  full  cup  with  bitter  tears  for  wine! 
O  love  unspeakable !  Dear  love  of  God ! 

Love  manifest  in  measureless  sacrifice, 
Teach  us  to  walk  the  way  which  Christ  hath  trod, 

Though  sands  should  scorch  our  feet,  and  on  our  eyes 
Smite  the  fierce  desert  sun,  and  briers  prod 

Our  shrinking  flesh — till  suffering  makes  us  wise. 


196 


"WHERE  ARE  THE  NINE?" 

There  were  ten  that  were  cleansed,  but  only  one 

Returned  to  praise  the  Lord; 
There  were  ten  that  were  cleansed,  but  one  alone 

Uttered  the  grateful  word. 

How  oft  in  the  night,  on  the  wind-swept  slope, 

While  happy  men  had  slept, 
In  his  desolate  soul  hope  after  hope 

Had  died  with  the  tears  he  wept. 

He  had  wandered  far,  and  his  sick  heart  yearned 

For  the  vanished  joys  of  home; 
Though  the  way  was  rough,  and  the  hot  sun  burned, 

Still  must  the  leper  roam. 

But  a  glorious  purpose,  sudden  and  sweet, 

Flooded  with  light  his  soul; 
He  hastened  to  the  Great  Healer's  feet, 

Crying  to  be  made  whole. 

And  others  were  there,  and  the  dust  like  smoke, 

Rose  where  the  ten  men  kneeled; 
And  the  kind  Eyes  saw,  and  the  calm  Voice  spoke, 

And  the  lepers  all  were  healed. 

And  they  turned  and  fled,  for  their  joy  was  great, 

But  the  Healer  they  gave  no  heed; 
While  only  the  stranger  thought  to  wait, 

To  praise  Christ's  loving  deed. 

Were    there    not    ten    cleansed,    but    where    are   the 
nine  ?" 

The  rebuke  is  ours  today, 
For  we  who  were  healed  at  the  touch  divine 

Still  go  our  thankless  way. 

197 


"THOUGH  HE  SLAY  ME". 

When  these  hot  pulses  cease,  O  Lord,  and  all 

The  fever  and  the  strife  at  last  are  done; 

When,  for  my  feet,  the  race  is  well  out-run, 
And,  spent  and  weary,  from  the  list  I  fall; 
When,  deaf  to  passion's  cry  and  duty's  call, 

And  reckless  of  the  honors  lost  or  won, 

I  turn  my  forehead  toward  the  setting  sun, 
Calm  and  content  to  leave  the  world's  rude  brawl — 
Then,  Lord,  for  the  sweet  pity  which  Thou  hast 

Of  those  who,  heavy-laden,  worn  with  pain, 
From  out  the  conflict  desolate  and  vast, 

Cry  unto  Thee  for  help,  nor  cry  in  vain, 
Grant  to  forget  my  weak  and  wandering  past, 

And  help  me  trust  Thee,  though  my  life  be  slain. 


NOT  IN  VAIN. 

Away  from  the  haunts  of  men,  from  the  feverish,  godless 

strife 

Waged  in  the  noisy  marts,  I  fled  to  the  templed  wood; 
My  eyes  were  dim  with  tears,  I  was  sick  of  the  cheat 

called  "life," 
And  the  venom  of  hatred  swept  like  flame  through  all 

my  blood. 

Where  the  gloom  of  the  wood  was  deepest  I  cast  me 

prone  on  the  ground, 
And  covered  my  face  from  the  day,  and  wished  it  were 

all  at  an  end, 
When  suddenly  up  from  the  earth,  like  the  beating  of 

hearts,  came  a  sound, 
And  over  me,  patient  and  pure  I  saw  a  violet  bend. 

And  my  anger  that  fiercely  smoked  was  quenched  as  I 

gazed  on  the  flower; 
I  knew  that  God  was  near,   though  veiled  was  His 

luminous  form; 
And  down  on  my  troubled  heart  fell  the  healing  dew 

of  His  power, 

And  I  learned  that  our  lives  not  in  vain  are  bowed 
like  reeds  in  the  storm. 


199 


IN  THE  STORM. 

Lord,  now  the  light  hath  vanished,  be  Thou  near; 
Within  the  awful  darkness  may  we  hear 
The  reassuring  words  that  Thou  dost  speak 
Across  the  swelling  waters.     We  are  weak; 
Still  at  the  laboring  oars  we  toil  and  strain, 
And  thro'  the  waste,  void  night  we  peer  in  vain 
For  any  beacon.     Every  star  hath  fled, 
And  the  hoarse  thunder  bellows  overhead; 
Our  shuddering  craft  is  driven  to  and  fro, 
As  the  fierce  billows  smite  it,  blow  on  blow; 
The  tempest  o'er  us  loud  and  louder  raves, 
Beneath  us  wider  yawn  the  gulfing  waves. 
O  be  Thou  near!    Uplift  Thy  voice  of  peace, 
And  bid  the  elemental  conflict  cease; 
Disperse  the  shadows  from  the  shrouded  skies, 
And  bless  with  morning  light  our  longing  eyes! 
Across  the  angry  surges  send  Thy  word; 
O  speak  and  save  us,  or  we  perish,  Lord. 


THE  YIELDED  WILL. 

Lord,  I  would  bow  my  stricken  head  and  say, 

"Thy  will  be  done !" 
I  know  that  o'er  this  same  sad,  weary  way 

Thou,  too,  hast  gone. 
Oh,  where  Thou  leadest  let  me  follow  still, 
Through  all  this  poor  dim  life  of  mine,  until 

My  sands  be  run. 


I  have  been  smitten,  but  not  from  the  ground 

My  sorrows  rose; 
Thou  e'er  hast  balmed  at  length  my  deepest  wound, 

•And  made  my  woes — 

Ah,  passing  strange! — like  oil  to  cheer  my  head; 
For  me,  too,  Thou  a  table  oft  hast  spread 

Before  my  foes. 

Though  Thou  shouldst  humble  me  unto  the  dust, 

Thy  will  be  done ! 
Lo,  take  me,  make  me,  break  me — Thou  art  just, 

O  Holy  One! 

On  this  marred  clay  Thine  image  stamp  divine; 
Rise  through  the  night  and  on  my  darkness  shine; 

O  Morning  Sun ! 


EASTER  MORNING. 

Three  days  the  harrowed  earth  had  swept 

Across  the  star-sown  gulfs  of  space, 
Since  she  beside  that  grave  had  wept 

Which  hid  her  first-born's  sinless  face; 
Her  heart  was  dark,  her  lamp  was  quenched, 

Her  fluttering  hope  untimely  dead, 
And  night  by  night  her  sorrow  drenched 

The  fevered  pillow  at  her  head. 

Then  as  the  dark  began  to  wane, 

And  Easter  morn  within  the  skies 
Its  rose  of  promise  set  again, 

Sleep  fell  upon  her  weary  eyes; 
And  as  she  slept  a  vision  came; 

It  smiled,  and  lightly  clasped  her  hand, 
And  swiftly  moved,  on  feet  of  flame, 

Past  many  a  strange  and  tropic  land. 


201 


Far  eastward  through  the  gates  of  dawn, 

By  paths  of  pearl,  'mid  golden  mists, 
Where  strewn  o'er  many  a  dewy  lawn 

Burn  diamonds  and  amethysts, 
Straight  on  into  the  rising  clay 

She  followed  still  her  flying  dream, 
To  where  with  festal  sounds  alway 

The  springs  of  glory  downward  stream; 

Where  throb  the  songs  that  never  cease, 

Where  dip  the  laurel  and  the  palm, 
Where  lilies  of  eternal  peace 

Breathe  airs  that  blow  from  hills  of  balm; 
Where  garmented  in  praise  One  stands 

Than  light  more  radiantly  fair, 
And,  joy  of  joys!    Whose  pierced  hands 

Lie  on  her  darling's  shining  hair. 

O  mother-love!    O  pure  delight! 

O  eyes  that  brim  with  blissful  tears ! 
Behind  her  dies  the  barren  night, 

Behind  her  sink  the  widowed  years; 
She  listened,  and  a  dear  Voice  spake: 

"Be  comforted,  thou  stricken  one, 
The  bruised  reed  I  ne'er  will  break" — 

She  woke,  and  saw  the  Easter  sun. 


202 


WHEN  NIGHT  IS  PAST. 

Ah,  when  the  night  is  past,  and  morning  breaks 

Above  the  hills,  and  from  the  pastures  gray 

The  folded  mists  steal  silently  away, 
And  every  leaf  its  flashing  jewels  shakes; 
When  on  the  grass  the  dews  burst  into  flakes 

Of  golden  fire  beneath  the  streaming  day, — 

Then  from  each  vocal  copse,  and  shrub,  and  spray 
A  ringing  sound  of  exultation  wakes. 
So,  Love,  when  death's  chill  night  at  length  is  done. 

And  from  the  couches  we  have  pressed  so  long 
We  rise  beneath  the  uncreated  Sun, 

Whose  glory  cloud  nor  gloom  shall  ever  wrong, 
For  us  Heaven's  heights  shall  kindle,  one  by  one, 

And  on  our  ears  shall  strike  a  sweet,  new  song. 


LABORARE  EST  ORARE. 

Yea,  "work  is  workship,"  said  that  hoary  man, 
Who  o'er  the  wintry  sea,  from  his  frore  height 
Of  four-score  years  and  six,  with  ageless  sight 

Watched  still  the  bodeful  struggle  in  the  van 

Of  the  world's  progress;  for  he  did  not  scan 
The  fray  as  one  who  had  not  tried  the  fight, 
But  as  one  who  had  battled  for  the  right, 

And  freed  his  own  soul  from  the  coward's  ban. 

Yea,  work  is  workship,  work  that's  one  with  pain ; 
Wrork  born  of  consecration  and  of  trust; 

Work  wrought  with  bruised  hand  and  weary  brain, 
Consenting  to  the  meager  cup  and  crust: 

Such  work  is  worship;  'tis  not  counted  vain; 
God  marks  His  toilers  by  their  sweat  and  dust. 


"YE  HAVE  DONE  IT  UNTO  ME" 

Lord,  I  was  hungry,  and  Thou  gav'st  me  meat; 

Yea,  blessed  Lord,  to  me  Thou  gavest  wine, 
And  corn,  and  oil,  and  bread  whereof  to  eat, 

And  madest  me  an  honored  guest  of  Thine. 

I  was  athirst,  dear  Lord,  and  Thou  didst  lead 
My  footsteps  whither  cooling  waters  flow, 

Through  many  a  shady  wood  and  dewy  mead, 
Where  spicy  winds  from  isles  of  morning  blow. 

I  was  a  stranger,  Lord,  footsore  and  sad, 
And  weary  with  long  journeys  from  far  lands, 

But  Thou  didst  take  me  in  and  make  me  glad, 
And  lavedst  my  bruised  feet  with  loving  hands. 

Lord,  I  was  naked  and  Thou  clothedst  me, 
As  lilies  are,  in  raiment  pure  and  white; 

Thou  tookest  from  me  shame  and  poverty, 
And  didst  exalt  me  in  the  people's  sight. 

And  I  was  sick,  Lord,  nigh  consumed  of  sin, 
And  all  my  life  was  vexed  with  heaviness 

And  sharp  distress,  but  Thou  didst  gently  win 
My  soul  to  health,  and  peace,  and  righteousness. 

In  prison,  Lord,  I  lay,  but  Thou  didst  come 
And  soothe  me  as  I  languished  day  and  night, 

Nor  wast  Thou  grieved  that  my  poor  lips  were  dumb 
And  could  not  tell  my  gratitude  aright. 

Ah,  Thou  wast  ever  better  than  my  fears! 

And  though,  for  all  Thy  mercies,  gracious  Lord, 
I  bring  Thee  now  but  empty  hands  and  tears, 

Yet  even  these  may  gain  love's  sweet  reward. 


204 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE. 

The  morn  bursts  on  us  with  a  song; 

Night's  sable  wings  are  furled; 
The  golden  age,  awaited  long, 

Dawns  on  the  weary  world. 
Now  hoary  wrongs  shall  righted  be, 

Love's  fillet  bind  each  brow, 
While  Peace  the  dove,  o'er  land  and  sea, 

Shall  bear  the  olive  bough. 

Lo,  watching  eyes,  bedimmed  with  tears, 

With  happiness  grow  bright; 
And  hearts  oppressed  with  gloomy  fears, 

Unfold  to  catch  the  light. 
Let  every  tongue  its  silence  break; 

No  more  let  battles  rage; 
While  valleys,  plains,  and  hills  awake 

To  greet  the  golden  age. 

Roll  swiftly  up,  O  joyful  day, 

Flood  all  the  heavens  serene; 
The  places  where  foul  dragons  lay, 

With  rushes  shall  be  green; 
The  lion  and  the  leopard  wild 

No  more  shall  maim  nor  kill, 
While  o'er  God's  mount  a  little  child 

Shall  lead  them  where  he  will. 


205 


RISEN. 

Ere  yet  the  shadowy  mountain  tops 

Were  silvered  with  the  light, 
Or  off  the  lilies  slipped  the  drops 

Won  from  the  dewy  night; 
Ere  yet  the  morning's  incense  curled 

O'er  glimmering  Galilee, 
The  grave  had  yielded  to  the  world 

Its  awful  mystery. 

Through  all  the  night  the  pallid  stars 

Watched  trembling  o'er  the  tomb, 
And  Olivet  wrapped  all  its  scars 

Deep  in  the  fragrant  gloom; 
The  world  one  instant  held  its  breath, 

When  from  the  flashing  heaven 
God's  angel  swept,  more  strong  than  death, 

And  death's  dark  bonds  were  riven. 

Forth  from  the  sepulcher's  embrace 

Behold  the  Conqueror  come! 
O  morning  sun,  unveil  thy  face! 

O  earth,  no  more  be  dumb ! 
From  century  to  century 

The  paean  now  shall  ring — 
O  grave,  where  is  thy  victory? 

O  death,  where  is  thy  sting? 


20(5 


THE  QUEST. 

I  journeyed  far  to  see  the  King;  my  days 

I  spent  in  weary  quests;  by  lonely  tarns, 

In  populous  cities,  in  the  wilderness, 

Where  the  gaunt  mountains  lift  their  hoary  fronts, 

And  where  the  deserts  spread  their  shifting  sands, 

Wandered  my  fruitless  steps.     For  I  was  fain 

To  see  Him  in  His  splendor,  His  august 

And  gracious  presence  making  all  the  place 

Of  His  enthronement  radiant  with  light. 

His  voice,  full  fraught  with  power,  I  deemed  should  be 

More  sweet  than  falling  waters  heard  afar, 

Or  the  warm  night-winds  whispering  in  the  pines; 

His  luminous  eyes  beneath  His  placid  brows 

Star-clear  should  calmly  beam  on  all  alike; 

And  from  the  dais  where  His  feet  were  set 

Refreshing  streams  of  influence  should  flow 

To  drooping  lives.    Thus  day  by  day  I  sought 

To  come  where  He  might  be,  but  evermore 

The  morrow  found  me  still  a  wayfarer; 

Till,  spent  and  gray,  I  turned  my  hopeless  feet 

Down  the  small  street  where  stood  my  empty  home, 

And  there  I  found  Him  waiting  at  my  door. 

Not  clothed  in  purple,  but  in  raiment  stained 

And  travel-worn;  His  feet  were  bare;  His  head 

Was  meekly  bowed,  and  on  His  wasted  cheek 

Were  traces  as  of  tears.    Within  His  hands 

He  held  no  scepter,  but  a  palmer's  staff; 

Yet,  as  I  looked,  I  knew  He  was  the  King, 

For  round  His  brow  was  girt  a  crown  of  thorns. 


207 


SUBMISSION. 

Lord,  hast  thou  for  me  still  some  poignant  cup, 
Some  austere  pathway  my  bruised  feet  must  tread, 

Some  bitter  herbs  whereon  I  yet  must  sup, 
Some  salt  tears  still  wherein  to  steep  my  bread? 

I  am  not  wise,  and  O,  my  knees  are  faint, 

My  hands  hang  down,  my  soul  is  parched  with  drouth; 
Oft  to  thee  have  I  made  my  sore  complaint, 

And  filled  with  fiery  arguments  my  mouth. 

Now  will  I  hold  my  peace  at  thy  command, 
And  to  thee  yield  my  life  in  patient  trust; 

Yea,  I  will  be  the  worm  within  thy  hand 
Wherewith  thou  beatest  mountains  into  dust. 


"AS  RAIN  ON  THE  MOWN  GRASS" 

On  drooping  lives  He  shall  descend 
As  on  the  mown  grass  fall  the  showers, 

Or  as  the  healing  dews  by  night 
Upon  the  thirsty  flowers. 

The  dreary  desert  shall  rejoice; 

Our  days,  so  profitless  and  vain, 
Shall  bud  and  blossom  with  delight 

Beneath  God's  fruitful  rain. 

Open  thy  windows,  gracious  Lord, 
On  us  the  promised  blessing  pour, 

Till  the  parched  gardens  of  our  hearts 
Stream  with  thy  love  once  more. 


THE  REST. 

"There   remaineth  therefore  a  rest 

To  the  people  of  God,"  it  is  said; 
Make  answer,  O  earth,  is  it  in  thy  cool  breast? 

O  grave,  do  they  rest  who  are  dead? 

"There  remaineth  therefore  a  rest 

To  the  people  of  God";  can  it  be 
Far  under  thy  foam- white,  wind-blown  crest? 

Tell  us,  O  restless  sea! 

"A  rest  to  God's  people";  O  Love! 

O  Christ,  to  Thy  pitiful  breast, 
Could  we  borrow  the  wings  of  the  home-flying  dove, 

We  would  haste  and  so  enter  our  rest. 

Yea,  soul!  "there  remaineth  a  rest"; 

So  be  it.    The  sweet  lilies  grow, 
And  they  toil  not,  they  spin  not,  and  yet  they  are  blest; 

Why  fret  we?    God's  people  shall  know. 


THE  DIVINE  ASSURANCE. 

My  child,  seek  not  to  understand,  for  now 
Thine  eyes  are  holden,  and  thou  canst  not  see 
The  hand  that  guides;  I  know  the  rugged  way 
Up  which  thou  toilest  wearily  and  alone. 
The  darkness  shall  not  fright  thee;  I  will  keep 
Thy  feet  from  falling  when  thy  dizzy  sight 
Looks  down  the  stark  abyss;  the  noonday  sun 
Shall  scorch  thee  not,  for  I  will  be  thy  shade. 
Out  of  the  cloud  I  will  speak  unto  thee 


When  thy  heart  faileth  and  the  bitter  tears 
Are  salt  upon  thy  lips.    Lo !  on  my  hands 
Thy  name  is  graven,  nor  can  I  forget 
The  thing  that  I  have  made;  yea,  let  this  be 
Thine  inmost  comforting — that  round  thee  lies 
The  mystery  of  my  love  that  cannot  cease, 
The  fulness  of  my  power  that  cannot  fail, 
My  patience,  boundless  as  eternity. 


ON  JUDAH'S  HILLS. 

On  Judah's  hills  the  shadows  lie; 

Heaven's  frosty  diadem 
Of  clustered  stars  is  burning  high 

O'er  sleeping  Bethlehem. 

Lo,  countless  wings  flash  on  the  night, 

And  hark!  celestial  strains 
Pour  down  the  glory-circled  height, 

O'er  all  the  slumbering  plains. 

Sing,  sing,  ye  white-robed  heralds,  sing! 

In  yonder  narrow  shed, 
Straw-pillowed  lies  your  Lord  and  King 

Upon  his  lowly  bed. 

Moriah,  lift  thy  radiant  crest; 

O  Judah,  be  not  dumb! 
Messiah  nestles  on  thy  breast, 

The  Prince  of  Peace  hath  come. 


210 


"LIKE  AS  WE  ARE". 

All  night,  with  fevered  eyes,  I  lay  and  stared 

Upon  the  darkness  while  my  sorrow  bled; 

Till,  'twixt  the  twilight  and  the  rose-flushed  day, 

I  slept,  and  sleeping  dreamed  that  I  had  died. 

Amid  the  little  stars,  that  past  me  rained 

Like  sparks  shot  downward,  swiftly  I  was  borne 

Unto  the  very  Presence.    With  crossed  wings 

And  haloed  foreheads,  round  me  circle-wise 

Stood  heaven's  pure  spirits.    "Thou  art  hither  brought," 

He  spake  upon  whose  face  I  dared  not  look, 

"That  from  what  tribulation  thou  art  come, 

Being  made  perfect,  thou  mayst  now  declare." 

So  with  bowed  head  and  quivering  touch  I  drew 

The  vestments  from  my  bosom,  whence  slow  dropped 

Big  tears  of  blood.     "Behold,"  I  faintly  said, 

"Not  hatred's,  but  love's,  bitter  stroke."     Whereat 

From  out  the  utter  glory  welled  a  Voice 

More  thrilling  sweet  than  music,  and  a  Form, 

Sun-clothed  and  with  a  golden  girdle  cinct, 

Moved  downward  to  me.    "Fear  not,  child,"  He  breathed 

•'I  am  thy  Brother,  and  I  know  thy  woe;" 

And  as  His  fingers  twined  about  my  own, 

I  saw  His  hand  was  wounded,  and  my  gaze, 

Daring  at  length  to  travel  upward,  marked 

The  spear-thrust  in  His  side.     Then  all  at  once 

I  knew  Him — knew  His  crown  of  twisted  thorns, 

And,  poring  on  the  mystery  of  His  eyes, 

I  knew  love's  holiest  Victim,  and  I  wept; 

But  He,  low  murmuring,  clasped  me  to  His  breast, 

And  as  a  mother  cherisheth  her  babe, 

On  my  abashed  brow  He  set  a  kiss. 


211 


COMPENSATION. 

Round  each  far  peak, 

Austere  and  bleak, 
Snow-laden  clouds  are  hanging; 
The  long  white  fields  are  dumb  with  frost  where  rang 

the  whetted  scythe; 

O'er  ice-bound  brooks, 

In  leafless  nooks, 
Sweeps  by  with  cymbals  clanging 
The  charging  blast,  while  all  the  wind-tossed  branches 

clash  and  writhe. 

But  somewhere  breathe, 
Through  vines  that  wreathe 
The  aisles  with  starry  blossoms, 

Sweet   airs   that   stir  the   sleeping  pools   and   kiss  the 
drowsy   flowers; 
There  safe  at  rest, 
In  each  soft  nest, 
Are  huddled  tiny  bosoms, 

While   o'er   the   moss   sift  flickering   gules   of   sunlight 
through  calm  hours. 

Look  up,  O  soul! 

Though  o'er  thee  roll 
Long  days  of  clouds  and  shadows, 
And  through  dark  months  of  mist  and  gloom  no  golden 

rays  outstream, 

Yet  light  shall  rise 

To  glad  thine  eyes, 
Like  sunshine  on  green  meadows, 
When  bursts  from  out  its  wintry  grave  the  splendor  of 

thy  dream. 


212 


"FOR  SO  HE  GIVETH   HIS  BELOVED   SLEEP". 

Not  yet,  my  child,  not  yet  the  twilight  falleth; 

Not  yet  the  sun  sinks  in  the  darkling  west; 
Not  yet  from  the  gray  fields  the  cricket  calleth; 

Fold  not  thine  hands,  'tis  not  yet  time  to  rest 

Still  weary  labor  plies  its  ringing  hammers; 

Still  the  forge  reddens  and  the  wheels  go  round; 
Still  the  thronged  market  lifts  its  deafening  clamors, 

And  iron  hoofs  of  traffic  smite  the  ground. 

' 

At  the  stern  task  a  little  longer  tarry; 

Mid  sordid  cares  the  vision  sweet  still  keep; 
The  burden  old  a  little  longer  carry; 

Then  the  night  cometh  with  its  healing  sleep. 


213 


A  MORNING  ORISON. 

Somewhere  the  morning  breaks;  the  crescent  light 
Floods  all  the  valleys  with  an  aureate  stream; 

A  glory  lies  on  the  unpeopled  height; — 
O  Lord,  on  me  let  thine  effulgence  beam. 

Now  from  the  leafy  privacies  outrings 
The  concord  of  the  feathered  minstrelsy; — 

Oh,  may  my  being's  praise,  like  smitten  strings, 
Tremble,  dear  Lord,  in  music  up  to  thee. 

From  the  veined  cups  of  the  awakened  flowers 
Rises  a  dewy  perfume,  sweet  and  rare; — 

Lord,  let  my  spirit's  unconjectured  powers 
Breathe  upward  to  thee  daily  like  a  prayer. 

The  thrifty  bee,  already  on  its  quest, 

Seeks  to  and  fro  some  nectared  treasure-trove; 
Lord,  in  the  inviolate  chambers  of  my  breast 

Garner  a  harvest  of  unstinting  love. 

Oh,  while  the  young  day  brightens  o'er  the  earth, 
And  smiling  peace  infolds  the  happy  land, 

Let  faith  in  every  bosom  find  its  birth, 
And  hope  and  charity  go  hand  in  hand. 


214 


VIA  CRUCIS. 

Though  wild  the  way,  and  though  my  feet  be  bleeding, 
And  sullen  skies  with  clouds  be  overcast, 

I'll  follow  thee,  my  Master,  all  unheeding, 
For  this  rude  path  shall  lead  me  home  at  last. 

What  though  I  stumble  oft  mid  thorns  most  bitter? — 
Thorns  yet  more  cruel  pierced  thine  aching  brow; 

Ah  me!  dear  Master,  surely  it  were  fitter 
That  I  should  wear  that  shameful  crown  than  thou. 

Dark  are  the  mountains,  and  the  shadows  dreary, 

Yet  darker,  Lord,  I  know  was  Calvary; 
My  brain  is  with  the  midnight  watches  weary, 

Yet  thou,  O  Lord,  hadst  thy  Gethsemane. 

Ah,  Master,  gentle  Master,  uncomplaining 

Thou  wearest  thy  scarlet  robe,  and  bearest  the  blight 

Of  thy  huge  cross,  though  thy  bruised  flesh  be  paining 
Still  with  the  scourge's  unrelenting  spite. 

And  I— I  cannot  bear  the  lightest  sorrow 
But  that  I  murmur,  and  with  anxious  eyes 

Wait  fretfully  for  the  desired  tomorrow 

When  I  shall  fare  beyond  earth's  troubled  skies. 

O  Lord,  clothe  thou  with  peace  my  restless  spirit, 
That  I  may  be  thy  strong  and  patient  son, 

And,  when  life  shall  be  life  at  last,  inherit 
Their  blest  estate  of  whom  'tis  said,  "Well  done". 


215 


AT  BETHLEHEM. 

The  Syrian  stars  are  burning  low; 

The  winds  are  laid,  the  night  is  still; 
The  waking  shepherd  paces  slow 

About  his  sheep-cote  on  the  hill; 
And  oft  he  turns  to  watch  the  skies 
With  wistful,  dim,  sleep-burdened  eyes. 

Still  closer  creep  the  huddled  flocks 
Within  the  shelter  of  the  fold; 

The  hoar-frost  whitens  on  the  rocks, 
The  thin  grass  stiffens  with  the  cold; 

Still  slowly,  o'er  the  shadowy  ground, 

The  shepherd  foots  his  weary  round. 

Hist!  over  Bethlehem's  sleeping  town 
What  sudden  strains  outleap  and  swell? 

Behold!  a  star  sinks  slowly  down 
And  glows  above  one  lowly  cell 

Where  lies  a  mother,  wan  and  pale, 

Hushing  her  new-born  Infant's  wail. 

Lo!  far  along  the  flashing  cope 

Gleam  angel  forms  with  folded  wings; 

A  strange  light  silvers  every  slope, 
And  through  the  vault  of  heaven  rings 

This  song,  again  and  yet  again, 

"On  earth  be  peace,  good  will  to  men." 

O  tired  mother,  take  thy  rest ! 

O  Judah's  hills,  awake  and  shout! 
And  from  the  east  and  from  the  west 

Let  voices  of  the  vales  break  out, 
To  hail  the  Babe  whose  feet  shall  press 
The  world's  dark  ways  to  save  and  bless. 

216 


AND  THE  WORLD  KNEW  HIM  NOT. 

Love's  gentle  footsteps  pressed  earth's  dusty  ways, 

And  no  man  heeded.     In  the  market-place 

Love's  voice  was  drowned  amid  the  clamors  loud 

Of  traffic.    By  the  couch  of  death  Love  knelt, 

But  fading  eyes  perceived  not.     Oft  Love  sought 

At  palace  gates  for  adit,  and  was  spurned 

Alike  by  lord  and  vassal.     Kings  were  deaf 

To  Love's  clear  accents,  and  at  temple  doors 

None  gathered  where  Love  stood  and  proffered  gifts 

Freely  to  all — to  beggar,  prince  and  priest. 

Then  with  bowed  head  and  drooping  mien  Love  climbed 

A  street  that  straggled  up  a  stony  hill, 

Where  dozed  a  little  town  amid  its  shrubs, 

And  there  at  play  beheld  a  sun-browned  lad 

With  serious  eyes.    Love  clasped  his  slender  hand, 

And  led  him  forth.     Anon  his  youthful  face 

Shone  on  grave  elders,  in  a  marble  court, 

Who  listened  with  amazement  to  the  words 

Which  from  the  boy's  pure  lips  dropped  like  fine  pearls. 

Love  blessed  his  secret  growth,  and  as  he  went 

Humbly  from  toil  to  toil,  or  o'er  his  bench 

Bent  softly  singing  at  his  task,  Love's  heart 

Was  glad. .  Now  through  the  crowded  mart  Love  guides 

His  patient  feet,  and  where  the  stricken  throng 

Upreach  beseeching  hands  Love  sees  him  touch 

The  maimed,  the  blind,  the  leprous — healing  all. 

At  noonday,  hunger-spent  and  travel-stained, 

He  sits  beside  a  well,  the  while  he  speaks 

The  tender  solemn  words  of  truth  that  save 

A  ruined  life.    All  beauteous,  gracious  things, 

Birds  and  fresh  blooms,  green  grass  and  flowing  streams, 

All  simple,  sinless,  self-forgetting  souls, 

Young  children  breathing  still  the  air  of  heaven, 


217 


Heart-broken  mothers,  daughters  crushed  with  shame. 

Care-burdened  men,  forlorn,  outcast,  oppressed, 

To  these  he  turned,  and  Love  was  well  content, 

Yet  paused  not  weary  grown.     Then  fell  a  night. 

Starless  and  heavy,  when  Love  saw  him  bow 

In  bitter  anguish,  and  his  desolate  cry 

Shattered  the  silence  where  the  olives  spread 

Compassionate  boughs  above  him,  and  great  drops 

Of  sanguine  sweat  coursed  down  his  wasted  cheeks. 

Nor  did  Love  shrink  when,  o'er  his  quivering  flesh 

Again  and  yet  again  the  knotted  scourge 

Hissed  writhing,  when  the  mocking  crown  of  thorns 

Tortured  his  brow,  and  when  beneath  his  woe 

He  onward  reeled,  mid  ribald  oaths  and  jests, 

To  where  gray  rocks  rose  naked  as  a  skull. 

And  there  they  nailed  him  to  the  ruthless  tree, 

Mangled  his  hands  and  feet,  and  gashed  his  side 

With  lance-like  spear  above  his  breaking  heart. 

O  Love  ineffable!     O  blenchless  Love! 

At  last  we  know  thee — God's  interpreter. 

Though  thou  wast  scorned,  yet  thou  dost  stand  e'en  now 

Beside  that  piteous  cross,  with  outstretched  arms 

Wooing  with  tearful  smiles  a  grave-sown  world. 


218 


LIFE  TRIUMPHANT. 

No  scepter  sways  the  dumb  and  wrinkled  earth 

But  Death's;  a  monarch  he  whose  hoar  domain 
Is  boundless;  silent  in  his  equal  train 

Meet  king  and  kern  alike— love's  austere  worth 
And  folly's  crapulous  shame;  no  thought  of  birth, 

Of  proud  or  base  degree,  he  taketh;  vain 

He  marks  all  scutcheons,  and  with  calm  disdain 
He  rends  all  bonds  of  blood.    By  every  hearth; 
In  every  pure  and  sweet  and  precious  spot 

By  human  service  to  man's  heart  made  dear; 
By  boreal  firths  of  ice,  and  by  the  hot 

And  stagnant  waters  of  the  torrid  mere, 
He  hath  his  subjects.    Death! — where  is  he  not? 

Where  droppeth  not  the  desolate,  desperate  tear? 


II. 


A  rain-washed  barrow  in  some  byway  green; 

A  crumbling  tablet  sculptured  like  a  cross; 

A  piteous  name  beleaguered  sore  with  moss, 
And  all  else  tongueless  that  we  once  have  been: 
O  life,  flame-winged,  is  this  what  thou  dost  mean? 

Are  all  thy  gains  consumed  in  one  huge  loss? 

Is  all  thy  fined  gold  but  dust  and  dross? 
Is  there  no  seed  immortal  thou  mayst  glean 
Amid  the  waste  of  tares  where  thou  dost  toil? 

Ah,  for  the  arid  years  of  wrong  and  ruth, 
Of  weariness  and  woe,  while  ever  moil 

The  pain-scourged  sons  of  time, — yea,  for  the  truth 
That  bitter  is  the  bread  wrung  from  the  soil 

In  tears, — is  there  no  meed  but  death,  forsooth? 


219 


III. 


What  lies  beyond?  Our  tremulous  questioning 

Falls  answerless  on  the  unpitying  air; 

Earth  hath  no  snow-crowned  seer  to  say  how  fare 
Those  souls  'twixt  whom  and  us  forever  swing 
The  unsunned  valves  of  night.    No  throbbing  wing 

Of  angel  e'er  hath  fanned  our  cheek.    O  where, 

To  what  cloud-girdled  realm,  'mid  love-lights  rare, 
Do  our  dear  travellers  go  a-journeying? 
No  solemn  voice  hath  reached  us  from  the  tomb; 

No  spectral  hand  hath  touched  us  from  the  dead; 
No  beacon  cleaves  the  void  and  icy  gloom; 

No  word  of  solace  dissipates  our  dread; 
All,  all  is  darkness — darkness,  silence,  doom: 

Whither — ah,  whither! — have  our  heart-twins  fled? 


IV. 


The  blind  lead  not  the  blind:  who  shall  lead  thee, 

Thou  orphaned  spirit?    Whither  thou  dost  go, 

Thou  canst  not  guess;  around  thee  ever  flow, 
As  round  its  islands  the  importunate  sea, 
The  mysteries  of  life  and  death.     No  key 

Is  thine  to  open  life's  shut  doors;  for  lo! 

Amid  the  years  thou  gropest  to  and  fro, 
Thyself  unto  thyself  a  mystery. 
Ah,  soul !  thy  seeking  hands  can  never  touch 

A  substance  that  endures:  the  shadows  fade, 
As  shadows  will,  within  thy  very  clutch, 

And  of  the  anguished  efforts  thou  hast  made 
Thou  reapest  naught  but  mockery  over-much: 

Yea,  fleeting  soul,  thou,  too,  art  but  a  shade. 


220 


V. 


Wherein  is  life?    Lo,  sun  and  moon  and  stars 

Are  perishing.     The  valleys  and  wide  hills 
Are  clothed  with  death.    The  winds  and  plaining  rills 

Chant  evermore  a  dirge  to  dying  Mars — 
Dying  amid  the  never-ended  wars 

'Twixt  light  and  darkness.    Dissolution  fills 
The  vanishing  universe.     Life  ever  kills 

The  life  it  makes.     Earth's  sanguine  avatars 
Are  gods  that  slay  the  creatures  of  their  breath, 

To  slake  their  mortal  lust  with  stanchless  blood. 
Oh,  where  and  what  is  life?    Who  is  it  saith, 

"I  am  the  life?"— o'er  Whom  rolled  the  red  flood 
Of  the  last  agony.     Life!— life  is  death: 

Yea,  flickering  soul,  death  is  thine  only  good. 


VI. 


Nay,  hearken  to  thine  own  voice,  O  my  soul! 

What  though  the  raving  blasts  dismay  thee  here? 

Despite  each  poignant  pang  and  breathless  fear, 
Despite  the  lampless  darkness  and   the  dole. 
Thy  tabernacle  shall  o'erspan  the  goal 

Of  sweet  desire;  pain  never  shall  come  near 

Thy  dwelling-place,  nor  any  longing  tear 
Vex  thy  clear  vision  while  God's  eons  roll. 
Lo!  countless  tongues  from  the  perpetual  hills, 

And  myriad  voices  from  the  vaulted  sky, 
And  the  vast  deep  whose  world-wide  whisper  thrills 

The  pulses  of  the  listening  spheres  on  high, 
Mingle  their  accents  in  a  sound  that  fills 

The  caves  of  death,  "Behold,  thou  shalt  not  die." 


221 


VIL 

We  shall  attain— yea,  though  this  dust  shall  fail, 
And  though  all  evil  things  conspire  to  bind 
The  struggling  soul  with  gyves  of  sense,  and  blind 

Our  faith  with  clay,  and  though  all  foes  assail 

To  utterly  destroy  us,  yet  from  wail, 
From  misery  and  from  doubt,  from  all  unkind 
False  hopes,  and  from  the  dwarfed  and  prisoned 
mind. 

We  shall  attain  to  life  beyond  the  vaiL 

Yea,  though  'tis  written  that  all  flesh  is  grass, 
Which  springeth  up  at  morn  and  flourisheth, 

And  which  at  even,  when  th'  inverted  glass 
Is  emptied  of  its  sands,  fades  as  the  breath 

The  dew-lipped  rose  sighs  on  the  winds  that  pass,— 
Yet  in  our  frailty  we  shall  conquer  death. 


